


The Wings of the Icemark

by BoomerangFish



Category: The Icemark Chronicles - Stuart Hill
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Gen, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-15
Updated: 2016-10-17
Packaged: 2018-08-22 11:55:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 26,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8284943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BoomerangFish/pseuds/BoomerangFish
Summary: Cressida will do anything to protect her country, while Octavius faces increasingly grave doubts about his mission.





	1. Crossroads

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The big one, the behemoth, started way back in 2011(ish) on FFnet and ported over here for safe keeping and because it's just a better site. 
> 
> I do know where it's going, and may finish it still.

Glad to be home, Oskan Witchfather stretched his feet toward the fire in the Royal Apartments and relaxed. Far off, he could hear the sound of the citadel; voices and footsteps as everyone prepared for the feast. For a second, he felt something brush against his mind, leaving a short image – marching soldiers – but then it was gone. It was the Sight, showing him pictures of what might be. It was to be expected. It was the dark of the moon, when magic was most powerful. Not to mention the upcoming war with the Polypontian Empire – there were many possible events, and thus many visions from the Sight. It did not frighten him.

Voices drifted in from just outside the door. Cerdic and Eodred were horsing around loudly – again – but were stopped by Thirrin's sharp voice. Oskan soon realized that it wasn't Thirrin's voice but Cressida's. The Sight brushed his mind again. A burning building. The silhouettes of a man and a woman ran into the flames while improbable shapes – massive kites and flying ships – flitted through the smoke above them. The image faded to be replaced by one of a young man – barely older than Cressida – speaking to a large crowd.

At that moment the door to the apartments burst open and the twins entered, followed by the rest of the royal children, even Medea. "It's too quiet in here!" Eodred boomed.

"Not now it isn't."

"I hope we're not disturbing you," Thirrin said, entering after them. She understood that the dark of the moon was the night that Oskan had most of his visions, and tonight's would  
probably be filled with war and destruction.

"Not at all," Oskan answered, "Find yourselves some chairs." A face rose in his mind, accompanied by a twinge of Sight. Charlemagne – but he was older, or maybe it was not Charlemagne at all. His hair was cut shorter, he was thinner, and he had a small scar slicing through his right eyebrow. He was on a ship of some sort, but there was no sea behind him, only clouds. He turned to speak to someone else that Oskan could not see.

"Dad…Dad?" Sharley called.

"Oh…sorry. It was the Sight." Oskan said, rousing himself from his vision. He decided not to tell Sharley about what he had seen; the Sight showed possibilities, nothing was set in stone. Once Oskan had even seen a man walking on the surface of some distant planet! The future changed depending on people's actions, so no vision was ever certain.

He looked at his family again, drawing breath to ask what they had been doing while he was away on the Icesheets, but he never got the chance. Pain burst into his head, pain and the Sight. He moaned and squeezed his eyes shut as more visions than he had ever seen flooded in.

A statue of a golden lion, its paw on an outward-facing book. Around its base lay the smoldering wreck of some sort of flying machine, its charred frame like the skeleton of an enormous animal.

Two men fighting in what might have been an office while a small child sheltered behind a desk. 

A victorious Icemark, but alongside the houscarles and fyrd stood Imperial troops lead by the young man from his earlier vision. 

An explosion on a battlefield. 

Cressida fighting an Imperial soldier on the bridge of a ship while beyond the windows a naval battle occurred – only it was in the sky.

Charlemagne standing on the envelope of one of the flying ships. He held a sword and prepared to fight a uniformed woman climbing out from the crow's nest. 

A funeral procession winding past grand buildings of white marble. 

The Icemark laid waste and the entire world controlled by the Empire.

Sand-ships chasing each other across the desert. 

A group of people from many different nations, Thirrin among them, gathered together in a hall to sign a treaty.

More visions flashed by, too quick for Oskan to register them. And over it all Oskan heard a voice – neither male nor female, young nor old, but it echoed in his mind and carried an unmistakable air of authority. "The world is at a crossroads. What you see may come to pass, and it might not. The future of all depends on the outcome of the coming struggle. Oskan Witchfather, beloved of the Goddess, remember this. The one who bears his name must take up the mantle of the great king, and he will lead us into the future with the lost son at his side."

Then the vision was gone, and Oskan swam toward consciousness. When he opened his eyes, everyone except for Medea was staring worriedly at him.

"Eodred, fetch wine. Cressida, keep out the guard." Thirrin ordered. Then she addressed Oskan. "What did you see?" Oskan told everything, describing the visions in great detail and ending with what the voice had told him. Everyone in the room stared at him, except Medea, who had left silently.

"Do you have any idea what it means?" Cressida asked after a long silence.

"None. But in most of the visions you and Sharley weren't that much older, so if they're going to happen, they will happen soon." As if Cressida's question had been the first trickle of a flood, everyone else in the room began speaking at once.

"Ships can't fly, it's impossible?"

"Who were the other people you saw? The young man and the uniformed lady, the little kid, the two guys fighting?"

"Who's the 'one who bears his name' and the 'lost son'? Whose name? Lead us into the future how?"

"Can't spirits ever just say, 'do this, and this will happen'?"

"Maybe because if they did, then we would just sit back thinking that the future would just happen, but events would be changed by our own inaction," Sharley said quietly, "It's something Maggie told me."

"I suppose that's right," Eodred said, "But still, it'd be helpful."

"It would…" Sharley said absently. He couldn't shake the images of himself standing on the flying ship and fighting. He couldn't fight, though he'd always wanted to; his weak leg made it impossible. Yet he knew that his father's visions almost always came true. There was a faint chance that they might change due to someone's actions, and Sharley held on to that. Even though he despised his boring life, at least it was safe.

"Well, we just received a report from the werewolf relay that might help clarify some of the visions a little," Cressida offered, "The werewolves talk to the birds and small animals in the Empire's lands, and they've told us that the Emperor just died."

"Well, that's good!" Cerdic said happily.

"No it's not," Cressida snapped, "The old Emperor didn't agree with Bellorum. When he wanted to kill all the people who tried to secede from the Empire after the last war, the Emperor forbade it. And in the five years since those wars ended, Bellorum's tried to get clearance to invade the Icemark twice. His supporters are the majority in the Senate, but he was always stopped by the Emperor. And when he proposed 'cleansing' the Icemark – basically, killing everyone, not just soldiers – that was vetoed too. Not to mention the fact that it was the Emperor who approved budget plans and troop allocations – now that he's dead, Bellorum can just do whatever the heck he wants. He can throw everything against us, all the soldiers and weapons that the Empire has. He was limited last time.

"The Emperor is succeeded by his son, who is only three or four years old. But the Senate acts as his regent now, and as I said, the majority of Senators support Bellorum. And if Bellorum decided to just kill the new Emperor and seize power for himself, he could. He's probably considering it."

"Oh, fantastic!"

"Well, it doesn't change our strategy at all. We'll just have to fend off everything he throws at us, just like last time. Except for one thing," Thirrin said sadly, "Sharley, you'll have to leave."

"What? Why? I should be with you…" Sharley gasped. In his shock, his weak leg gave way and he fell sprawling on the floor.

"That reason. Your weak leg means you can't fight, and you would only be in danger here. You're the obvious choice to lead the civilian population into exile. And you won't be alone – I'm sending Maggie with you."

"But I should stay here; you're my family, what if I never see you again!" Sharley almost wailed.

"Sharley, you can't do anything to help here. I'm sorry. And Bellorum will have learned from the last war with us, not to mention everything that Cressida said…there's a good chance that we'll fall, even with all the allies gathered from the start."

Sharley didn't say anything. He knew his mother was right, with his weak leg; he would only be a liability. But he felt it was his duty to stay. Half formed arguments whirled around in his head, but he knew none of them could ever convince Thirrin to let him remain in the Icemark. He stood up and limped to the door. He didn't want to stay in that room with everyone looking at him with pity and the horrible news hanging in the air. I'll be leaving the Icemark, leaving home, leaving everyone. I'm not even sure where I'll be going, or if I'll die there. And what if the Icemark falls? He had to find some way to convince Thirrin to let him stay. But it was hopeless - he was sure he would cry. But through his sorrow and fear he remembered Oskan's vision – him standing on the envelope of a sky-ship while it flew, fighting someone.

He supposed that his father's visions were coming true after all. They usually did. Then another one swam into his mind; the Icemark conquered, the whole world ruled by the Empire. Even if he had only the smallest role to play in future events, he would try his best to keep that most terrible of Oskan's visions from coming true.


	2. End of an Era

The snows of the Icemark had flowed south past the Dancing Maiden Mountains, covering the wide plains of the south in a white blanket. Where the snows began to thin out and the Apennine Mountains brush close to the coast, there lay a wide plain. The part of it nearest the sea was an enormous tidal marsh, and all of the plain was muddy in the summer months. At the moment, the plain and marsh were cold and frozen. A river wound down from the central Apennines, and there on the plain it was joined by another river from the south. It was these rivers, and the smaller streams and brooks of the delta, that gave the land its name. It was known as the Country of Bridges, the Polypontus.

The city of Romula was built at the intersection of those two rivers, where the plain became marsh. It was incredibly old, dating back over a thousand years. Originally built on seven hills, it had expanded to occupy the valleys as well. On any other day there would have been sky-ships taking off and landing at the Aerodrome and lines of traffic waiting to cross the enormous bridges into the city to sell crafts and produce at the markets. On any other day there would have been a haze of light and smoke and noise hanging over the city like a cloud, but not that day. That day, all was silent save a small strand of music rising from one acre of cemetery across the river, where the rulers of the Empire had been buried for hundreds of years; a slowed-down version of the Imperial anthem. The entire city was at a standstill to mourn the passing of Tristus Angellius Lycurnum Cicero, Emperor of the Polypontus.

Octavius Domitian Lycurgus Bellorum watched as the final words were said and the coffin was lowered into the ground. He felt…strange. He could not name the emotions – perhaps this was just how one felt at a funeral for someone they had admired. The Emperor had brought their country safely through fifteen years of civil war. And after the frontier wars had ended, he had extended forgiveness to the lands that had tried to secede. His Majesty had believed in their national mission to enlighten the world, and wanted the Empire to be more of a united country, rather than a central power and dangerous, volatile occupied territories. 

But no matter how pure his ideals were - or perhaps because of it - the Emperor had still had many enemies. Octavius could see two of them now, watching as the grave was filled with earth and doing a masterful job of hiding their satisfaction.

As the coffin was covered, Octavius could almost feel the attention shift from the grave to the young Emperor where he stood among his guards. Emperor Tristus was dead and buried, what would happen now? Who would seize power? The young Emperor could not rule fully until he reached the legal age of sixteen; someone or a group of someones would have to be Regent until then. And whoever that turned out to be would certainly use that power to further their own ends.

The young Emperor shifted uncomfortably as he felt all the eyes on him, and Octavius managed to put a name to one of the emotions that had been troubling him earlier. It was worry. The new Emperor was not even four years old and looked as if the next great gust of wind would blow him away. He couldn't possibly command authority. The Regent would become Emperor in everything but name. The senators and magistrates and the other high officials of the late Emperor's government would all fight among themselves for who would get the power, and whoever prevailed would be loath to step down when His Majesty turned sixteen.

But if the last member of the House of Cicero never turned sixteen… Octavius did not want to think about what might happen. The regent, of course, would be ideally placed to take over. The civilian population would have the most trust in the Regent, and the Praetorian Guard would already be sworn to protect him. Because of this, even before the late Emperor had died, the top members of his government had been plotting how they would become Regent themselves and take the Empire for their own. And even if they were not Regent, they would try, because it was too much power to just let slip away. It would be like the old Empire before the Reconstruction, when armies had marched on Romula every time the Emperor did something that the commanders disagreed with. And with the government so distracted, the situation on the Periphery would spin out of control again – a prospect Octavius, after fighting through the last great civil war and still dealing with the effects, was none too thrilled about.

As the funeral guests began the ride back to the center of Romula, Octavius was still lost in thought. Not only worries about the coming power struggle, but increasing almost-fear of what might be happening in the Canyon Maze while he was gone. The rebels and terrorist organizations may have been put on the run after Li Feng's death, but they were not truly gone. He knew for a fact that the Free Artemision were still a danger, and the sooner he returned to the Periphery the better.

As they neared the palace precinct, the crowds thickened along the sidewalks. Crowds that had turned out in the morning to watch the Emperor's coffin on its way to the cemetery now tried to see his successor, and attempted to gauge his capability to rule. The object of their attention ducked his head inside the collar of his cloak and refused to look at anyone.  
Octavius' feelings of unease increased. The Emperor – any leader, in that matter – should project confidence and competence. The citizens would be less likely to follow him if they thought him weak, and it would be easier for someone else to take over. And if the Emperor was young or weak – well, certain dangerous elements would just have a field day with that; another reason why Octavius needed to return to the Canyon Maze as soon as possible.

He spent the rest of the ride devising tactics – he wanted to waste no time when he returned to the south. Before he knew it, the procession had arrived in Eagle Square. As the Emperor vanished through the palace gates, they all dismounted and bowed. With the royal party out of sight, the façade of mourning was gone as well. The procession remounted their horses and broke apart, all heading for their offices to meet with staff or political allies, and plan how they would gain the most from the Emperor's death.

\---------------------

The defense complex occupied the top of the hill just to the right of the palace. It was more or less triangular, with the headquarters of the Army, Navy and Intelligence Agency at the points and a wide plaza at the center. The three buildings were connected by a network of underground tunnels and passages – relatively new, and built for the unlikely event of an attack on the city. All three buildings were enormous, and grand in their own right, but the Army's building was by far the oldest and largest.

Octavius left his horse in the stables and walked to one of the smaller, less-used entrances. He supposed he could climb to his office, but that might cause some uproar, not to mention the fact that the wall was wet and slick. He entered the building, thankful that it was not as busy as he remembered. He only saw one person on his way to his office on the second floor. He planned to stay late that night, reviewing intelligence and planning, and set out for the military base at Crater Lake early the next morning.

As he neared the office, he noticed a faint band of light seeping from beneath the door. That was odd. He drew his pistol in his left hand and kept his right ready on his saber, and crept down the hall. Waiting to the side of the door, he heard nothing from within. Perhaps he was just too paranoid, and the light could be explained. Or not – it was cloudy outside and raining and he would never leave the lantern lit. He kicked open the door and had his pistol leveled at the person behind the desk before he had time to recognize a face.

"You can put that away, brother, I'm not here to kill you," Sulla Bellorum said, at complete ease.

"Hello, Sulla. May I ask what you are doing in my office?"

"I've come to deliver a message; your presence has been requested at a meeting concerning the upcoming invasion. I personally thought you should not attend, but Father insisted." 

Octavius personally thought he should leap across the room and punch Sulla in the face. No. That would not be an advisable course of action, there would be repercussions. 

"Invasion?"

"Oh, you haven't heard," Sulla smirked, "Just come from the Maze?"

"Yes, and I don't suppose anyone has heard. One would think the whole city would be talking about it by now."

"Well, it isn't official yet and won't be for another month, but I'm sure that the Senate and Regent will approve. We're invading the Icemark after all." Octavius' eyes widened fractionally. He had known that a second invasion would happen eventually, but now? It was so inconvenient; he still had work to do in the Maze. "Is that surprising? Surely you have heard about the Aurora crash, or are you that isolated in the canyons?"

"A terrible tragedy, lost with all aboard in the Great Gulf. I gather that the analysis of the crash site has been completed, then, do you know the cause?"

Sulla rose and left the room, beckoning Octavius to follow. "Come along, it won't do to be late. And we do know the cause – Vampires."

"Pardon?"

"There were long gashes in the envelope apparently made by claws that allowed the lifting gas to escape. Furthermore, the rudder assembly had been tampered with and partially destroyed, but it passed the preflight check and no crew members had been on the envelope during flight. Here, you should probably read the full report before the meeting." Sulla handed him a thick folder, and Octavius read as he walked.

"You think Vampires crossed the border and attacked a passenger ship? The Great Gulf has some of the worst winter weather in the Empire, would it not make more sense that the ship foundered in a storm?"

"You would say that, but no. The damage to the envelope and rudder is quite conclusive."

"But why would Queen Thirrin deliberately provoke an attack? They barely won in the first invasion and that was only a fluke, and it took years for the Icemark to rebuild. She must have known we would retaliate."

"Who can tell what those northern barbarians were thinking? But surely you agree, this is an act of war."

"If it was a Vampire attack and not a failure on the part of the examiners."

Sulla glared at him. "I personally examined the wreck after the main team and agreed with their analysis."

Octavius did not reply. They were nearing the conference rooms and the halls were busier, and he did not wish their conversation to be overheard. Officers hurried everywhere, no doubt already preparing for the invasion even though it had not been officially announced. It made Octavius very uncomfortable. The month after the Emperor's death was for mourning, not "Oh good, he's dead. Let's do everything he would have vetoed." They passed through easily, leaving pockets of silence in their wake, and walked past the conference rooms without slowing. Sulla headed instead for a long hallway with double doors at the end. 

A chill ran down Octavius' spine. He had faced death more times than he cared to count, but his father still terrified him. He thought he would rather be stranded in the Canyon Maze with no water or weapons, not even a pointed stick or cactus, surrounded by enemies on a precipice overlooking a sheer drop with sharp rocks and snakes at the bottom than have a one-on-one meeting with the Army's commander-in-chief.

As the Black Army guards to either side of the doors snapped to attention, Octavius arranged his face into a careful mask of boredom. Never show your fear. Sulla pushed the door open and they both entered. Every nerve on edge, Octavius quickly planned his escape routes.

Straight out the door was the easiest and most obvious. Assuming that route was blocked, he could also jump out the window, but that would necessitate crossing the room. And if he could not grab hold of a tree, he would injure himself. There was another, smaller door to his left, he noted, but it was locked. He would also need to create some sort of diversion - tip the oil lamp over and start a fire, perhaps. Octavius felt relatively more at ease with the outline of an emergency plan, but that was not saying much.

General Scipio Bellorum glanced up at them from a sheaf of reports. "Sit down," he said coldly and returned to reading the latest reports from the military base at Silverstone. Sulla took the seat to their father's right and smirked. Recognizing the slight, Octavius dug his fingernails into his palm until it hurt and sat on the left.

"Octavius, I trust you have heard the news about the Aurora?" Scipio asked quietly.

"Yes sir." _Look, you and Sulla were away on some top-secret mission in the Ice Wastes, by all rights even more isolated than the Canyon Maze, but I'm not making annoying comments about that, am I? ___

__"Then you know that the crash was no accident, and you understand the need for retaliation. Now, the army is already mustering at Silverstone, and we will invade as soon as the glaciers recede."_ _

__Scipio unrolled a large map of the Icemark and the northernmost provinces of the Empire and a smaller one detailing the borderland. Three mountain passes, relatively evenly spaced along the Maidens Range, were marked on both. "The main vanguard of the invasion will enter through Avalanche Pass. At the same time, two forces of equal size will march through Sheer and Luminos. Lindenshield will need to split her defense force in three or leave the other two passes open._ _

__"Before then, Intelligence agents and Special Operations teams will have crossed the mountains, the objective being to detonate bombs near both military and civilian targets. This will create confusion and fear among the population and will hopefully destroy some of the defenders' supplies. Though don't count on that."_ _

__"As usual, masterful in its clarity and genius, " said Sulla, "Might I inquire about my - our commands for the coming war?"_ _

__"Of course. You will command the heavy cavalry and Black Army with me. Octavius, you will have command of all light cavalry including your personal regiment. You will rejoin them at Silverstone."_ _

___What? What? I can't leave the Maze! Who knows what will happen when I'm gone? I need to be there to respond! _Some of Octavius' surprise must have showed on his face.__ _ _

____"I daresay the forces in the Maze will be able to handle themselves without you for six months. If you have trained them well enough."_ _ _ _

____"I have, sir."_ _ _ _

____"Then you should have nothing to worry about," Scipio raised his wine glass, "Gentlemen, to a happy war."_ _ _ _

____\-------------------------------_ _ _ _

____Back in his office, Octavius reflected on the events of the day, particularly the meeting. Something had been troubling him since it had ended. He had left knowing and understanding everything, and yet…_ _ _ _

____It all made sense, perfect sense. But something was off about it; Octavius simply did not know what. As he folded his maps of the Canyon Maze and spread out the maps of the Icemark on his desk, it occupied his mind like a particularly difficult equation. He knew he would not be able to concentrate fully on anything else until he figured out what he thought was wrong. Leaning back in his chair, he recalled every minute of the meeting. The facts seemed to fit together well. A Vampire attack across the border was possible, maybe even probable. If the Empire had had time to recover after the failure of the first invasion, then so had the Icemark, and Thirrin Lindenshield may well have been looking for revenge. And in that situation, an invasion was a logical course of action. Not the only course of action, but it made sense. But if it was a Vampire attack, it was remarkably well timed._ _ _ _

____That was it, the pieces fit together too well! That Vampire bats attacked a sky-ship on the Empire's side of the border just as the Emperor died, before a Regent was chosen, creating a situation in which the logical and obvious choice to be Regent was the commander in chief of the army, who was already looking for a reason to invade the Icemark, prompting an invasion, not to mention making the citizens, government and soldiers more or less in favor of one…and if Scipio was Regent, it would be far easier to invade – no having to get the Emperor's approval for anything, and he already controlled the Senate. It was not just convenient, it was _too _convenient. In Octavius' experience, things never worked out that nicely.___ _ _ _

______But no, he was being too paranoid. Perhaps it _had _simply worked out that way; there is no reason why it should not. Octavius concentrated on his maps and books and tried to put all thoughts of odd coincidences out of his head. He was only irritated because the invasion would keep him from finishing his work in the Maze. And if that was the case, he should make sure that victory came quickly so he could return sooner. With that in mind, he focused on devising new tactics.___ _ _ _ _ _

_________It is simply a coincidence, and it's not my place to question the decisions of my commander. Scipio will do what is right for the Empire. _It almost reassured him.__ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enter the garbage trash man. 
> 
> (Originally posted 2012).


	3. Leaving Home

_One of the few advantages to ruling a small country in a dangerous world, _Thirrin thought to herself, _was the people's readiness to face trouble without much complaint. _True, there had been some grumbling, but overall the evacuation had gone much better than expected.____

____Since the threat from the Polypontus had been renewed, everyone not essential to the war effort had been traveling to Old Haven throughout the winter months. The very young and the very old, accompanied by those who would care for them, had settled by the shore to await the day when they would set sail for the Southern Continent. Now that the spring thaw had come, the first fleet would gather and take the Southern Riding's refugees to the lands that had been offered them by the Doge of Venezzia._ _ _ _

____The refugees would depart in groups based on their town – first the towns closest to the Dancing Maidens, the ones that would be attacked first, then continuing northward. Thirrin had wanted to send them all in one fleet, to make sure they were out of the Icemark before the invasion, but that would be impractical. If the fleet was attacked by the Polypontian navy or marauders, if it was caught in a storm, then all the refugees would perish. Better to send many smaller fleets, so at least some would survive._ _ _ _

____Thirrin was understandably anxious. She worried in the abstract, an anxiety about everything bundled together that followed her no matter what she did. And she worried in the particular – that the Icemark would fall, that all of the refugees would not make it to safety, and most of all about Sharley. She was asking too much of him. He wasn't trained. He wasn't ready – but he had to go. To rule the exiles, to continue the line of Lindenshield, and for his own safety._ _ _ _

____But Thirrin didn't have to like it. Beyond the Icemark's borders, she couldn't protect him. She wouldn't even be able to know if he was safe. Something like sending the entire population of the Icemark as refugees wouldn't go unnoticed by the Empire. Bellorum's armies would be occupied in the north, but Sharley would still be in danger from the Empire's network of spies and assassins. He would have guards, but there wasn't much guards could do against poisoned food or a hidden sniper with the latest rifle._ _ _ _

____Oskan sensed her fear and took her hand. No words were said; none were needed. What could he say that Thirrin didn't already know?_ _ _ _

____Hand in hand, they waited for the ceremony._ _ _ _

____\---------------------_ _ _ _

____The citizens of Old Haven and some of the refugees not a part of the first fleet had lined the main street from the citadel to the harbor. And not just the street – people leaned out windows and perched on rooftops, all for a better view of the departure. The decks of the ships were already packed with refugees – Thirrin had ordered them aboard early in case something happened on shore and they needed to depart quickly. There had been several attacks in the past few weeks – bombs detonated in random towns throughout the southern half of the Icemark. There was no discernible pattern, but it made sense that a large gathering designed to give the population confidence would be a target._ _ _ _

____A fanfare rang out and all eyes turned to the citadel. The gates swung open and out marched a column of housecarles and werewolves, banners proudly on display. They were followed by the royal party and cheering erupted as the crowd caught sight of their queen. If they saw that she was surrounded by more guards than usual, they didn't let it lessen their excitement. They didn't notice that she stared stiffly ahead; holding her horse's reins with white knuckles. Beside her paced the Snow Leopard monarchs, Tharaman-Thar and Krisafitsa-Tharina, and Grishmak, the King of the Wolf-folk. Following the monarchs were Oskan Witchfather and the royal children. The three eldest were all fully armored and riding chargers. Charlemagne was dressed simply, riding a quiet horse, and kept darting quick glances at the crowds on either side._ _ _ _

____He was almost sick with fear. He'd thought he had it under control preparing to ride out of the citadel, but the sight of the crowds and the wide open sea had brought it all back. He was leaving. He might never see his home again. Frantically, he tried to commit every detail to memory. The sound of marching feet, the murmur of the crowds, the waves breaking, the salty tang in the air. The bright blue sky. He felt about to cry again, but he would not, not in front of all these people.  
Why couldn't he be more like Cressida? She was deep in conversation with her advisor, that grumpy little engineer. She looked perfectly natural and at ease. The twins were joking around and smiling, as always. Even his parents – he could tell they were anxious, but they didn't show it. Or if they did, it was in small clues that only Sharley could pick up on._ _ _ _

____By this time the regiments had reached the square. The royal party rode forward into a space defined by the infantry and cavalry on two sides, the crowds on a third, and the sea for a fourth. Oddly enough, all of Sharley's terror left him and he only felt mildly nervous as he rode to the opposite side of the square from his family. Behind him and to the side was Maggiore, sitting calmly in his sedan chair and observing the proceedings._ _ _ _

____A hush fell over the crowd as they sensed Thirrin preparing to speak. She straightened in her saddle and her voice, pitched at battle level, echoed over the square. "People of the Icemark, behold my son, Charlemagne Athelstan Redrought Strong-in-the-Arm Lindenshield, Prince Regent to the Exiles, and my beloved child. In this time of grave crisis I send him this day to be your leader in the Southern Continent until such time as our enemies are defeated and you can return to your homes…" her voice wavered, and she paused a moment to control it. "Know you all that in exile Prince Charlemagne is entrusted with the full power of the Lindenshield monarchy. His word is law. His thought is your action. His anger brings death. Look upon him now and tremble!"_ _ _ _

____Sharley could have laughed at the irony. He wasn't intimidating in the least; he had none of the fire and lightning of a northern warrior. No one was looking upon him and trembling – _more like pointing and laughing _, he thought bitterly.___ _ _ _

______"I call upon all here present to witness my act," Thirrin continued, "I now bestow upon your Regent the Great Ring of State. Know you all that sovereignty lies within the body and presence of the Monarch but also with those who wear this symbol of our country's power. For the duration of the war my son Charlemagne will wear the Ring of State. From this day, the Icemark effectively has two rulers! The histories shall record that King Charlemagne reigned in loving duality with his mother, Queen Thirrin, for the duration of the war with the Polypontian Empire. All hail King Charlemagne!"_ _ _ _ _ _

______Sharley heard Maggie gasp, and was shocked himself, as Thirrin rode forward, removed the Ring of State from her finger and placed it on Sharley's. This was unprecedented! Never before had there been two monarchs at the same time! The crowd cheered heartily, and Sharley felt almost dizzy with amazement. But as distracted as he was, he still noticed when Thirrin tensed and her eyes focused on something over his shoulder._ _ _ _ _ _

______Several things happened at once. Thirrin leaned across and pushed Sharley's body down close to his horse's neck, holding her shield to protect them both. An ear-shattering gunshot split the air. And Sharley saw Archimedo Archimedes stagger and clutch his chest as blood poured out from between his fingers, spreading across the front of his robe like the petals of a rare flower._ _ _ _ _ _

______Sharley could hear screaming and running feet as the crowd fled. Housecarle guards surrounded them, cutting off much of Sharley's view of the square. He could still see the rooftops, though, and he caught sight of a figure crouched behind a chimney reload a rifle and point it at him. Before the figure could fire, another shot rang out from the square. The sniper fell backward or ducked, and did not appear again._ _ _ _ _ _

______The ring of housecarles tightened, cutting him off from his mother and herding him toward the ship. As they moved, he could see Maggiore standing in his sedan chair, holding a small pistol and looking as stunned as Sharley felt._ _ _ _ _ _

______As he ran up the gangplank, Sharley turned and scanned the square for his family. They were already on their way back to the citadel, surrounded by a tight knot of bodyguards. Archimedo's body lay facedown on the cobbles. That was the last view Sharley had of the Icemark before the guards hustled him down a hatchway to the safety belowdecks._ _ _ _ _ _

______\--------------------_ _ _ _ _ _

______Sharley sat at the small table in his cabin, numb, trying to make sense of what had happened in the square. He could barely think straight, and his hear was still pounding. Everything after he received the Ring of State was a blur, and every time he closed his eyes he saw Archimedo die again. Someone had died, right there in front of him. He himself nearly was shot. And Maggie – _Maggie had a gun. Maggie killed someone, maybe? How did Maggie get a gun? _____ _ _ _ _

________He heard a set of footsteps in the corridor and tensed, fearful of another assassin. As the door swung open, he jumped out of his chair and grabbed the first thing his hand encountered on the table – an empty mug. Maggiore Totus entered, looking tired, and Sharley exploded. He was shocked and confused, and he wanted answers. "What happened back there? You just – you shot that sniper, and Archimedo's dead and they nearly got me or my mom or someone else and who were they working for and -"_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________"Sharley. Slow down, I'll explain everything."_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________"You have a gun."_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________"Yes – your mother gave it to me. I'll tell you everything if you just listen."_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________"Fine. But tell me _everything, _" Sharley placed the mug back on the table, realizing how silly it must have looked, and sat down. He stared hard at the old scholar, who just looked apologetic. "Start with how you got that gun."___ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Maggie sat at the table across from him and folded his hands, looking for all the world like he was about to begin another classroom lecture. "When your mother, Queen Thirrin, decided to send you to the Southern Continent, she knew the Polypontian Intelligence Agency would learn about it, and they might try to harm you. I'll get to that, Sharley." Maggie said, noticing Sharley's shocked look. "I would already be going, to smooth the way for the refugees, and she asked me to look after you. She gave me the gun – one of the ones we captured after defeating the first Polypontian invasion – to protect us both in case guards failed."_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________"So why did you shoot that assassin? I mean, why not leave it to the housecarles or someone who's actually trained?"_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________"I shot him because he was aiming at you. I had the gun and he was about to fire, I thought it was the only way to protect you. I'm not proud of it. I wish I hadn't had to – it feels horrible, to have taken another human's life, even if they were an assassin."_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Sharley sat there for a moment, looking at his hands, twisting the hem of his tunic. "I'm not angry at you, Maggie. You did save my life, so thank you." He paused a moment. "So who was the assassin working for? I'm pretty sure he didn't just have a grudge against engineers, or he would have left once Archimedo was dead."  
"He…or she…they do employ some women, was most likely from the Intelligence Agency. They are…well, what their title is, but a little more. They collect information for the Empire, but they also perform assassinations and influence events in other countries. They usually work in tandem with the army – before an invasion, Intelligence agents gather information on the enemy's troop movements and create confusion and instability among a country's population - random bombs and such. "_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________"So they were behind all those attacks in the Southern Riding. Well, I sort of expected it to be the Empire."_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________"In some countries, they are feared almost as much as the army. While the army can only really threaten a country if it shares a border with the Empire, the Intelligence Agency can strike anywhere. However, they can't do as much damage on their own. They usually just keep events in a country going in a way that benefits the Empire, just gather information, or kill the people that the Empire perceives as possible threats." Sharley guessed that Maggie was giving him a simplified explanation, but he didn't press for details. There would be time for that during the long months of their sea journey, and he really didn't want to know at the moment. He had a few more questions, and then he just wanted to be alone._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________"But if the Empire sent an assassin, why didn't they aim for my mother first? I mean, she's the queen and Archimedo is – was – just an advisor. Why'd they go to all the trouble to kill him?"_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________"First, a single assassination is no trouble for the Intelligence Agency. They've toppled entire regimes, financed civil wars that turned once-stable countries into easy targets…I doubt the Director even batted an eye."_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________"I get that. Sounds like the Empire. But why did they choose to kill Archimedo if Queen Thirrin was right there?"_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________"I suppose it was because Archimedo was an engineer and gave us an advantage that they didn't want us to have. A slight advantage, not enough to win the war for us but enough to make it difficult for them," Maggie said evenly, "And he may have possessed some information about their new weapons, I don't know."  
"Yes, but why did they kill him first? Didn't they think that losing a monarch would be more of a blow than losing a particularly talented engineer?" Sharley said impatiently, tired and frustrated at Maggie's short answers._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________"Losing a monarch is a blow that we could recover from. If, gods forbid, your mother was killed, Cressida would inherit the throne. If you were killed, the refugees would still leave the Icemark. It would sorely hurt us, but we would be able to recover and fight on. Mr. Archimedes was the only engineer of his caliber in the Icemark, and we can't replace him. And now we won't have his expertise to help us in the war."_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Sharley sat, digesting the information. What Maggie was saying made perfect sense, but Sharley had always thought the Icemark was safe from Polypontian spies. He had reasoned that they would be too afraid, that it would be too difficult to cross the mountains; that defeating them once would mean they'd just leave the Icemark alone. And now that had all been shattered. "Maggie…I thought the Icemark was safe from Polypontian spies…"_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________"It was – compared to other countries in the world. But the Empire's spy network reaches everywhere, Sharley," Maggiore said softly, and instantly regretted it. Sharley deserved the truth, but the truth was frightening and he'd already been through enough for the day. He reached out to give Sharley a reassuring pat on the arm, but he drew away. Sharley wasn't suddenly afraid of his tutor or still too shocked to think, he simply needed to get his head around the information he'd just received._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Maggie had said the Icemark was relatively safe. But Archimedo had just been shot and killed in front of hundreds of housecarles. And Sharley was headed for Venezzia – safe from the army, but one of those countries that was bound to be crawling with Polypontian agents._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Sharley looked out the window as the Icemark's coastline receded, and his stomach clenched in fear. _If the Empire could get that close, came so near to killing him in the Icemark, what could they do in Venezzia? _____ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh yeah, there's some Sharley chapters too.


	4. Silverstone

Octavius Bellorum was in a foul mood.

He did not even know _why_ , which only seemed to contribute further. He had ruled out any of the immediately obvious causes; anger at being kept away from the Canyon Maze, worry about what sort of chaos was being allowed to happen while he was gone, suspicion that he was not being told the full truth about the _Aurora_ crash or anything else for that matter, the cycle of tedious meetings in preparation for the invasion, and the daily stress of being in close contact with his father and twin. Any one of them could have been behind it, and yet he knew the root of the problem lay elsewhere. Granted, they probably had something to do with it.

Something had been troubling him since before his arrival at Silverstone, the fortress that guarded the main route into and out of the Icemark. This something was constantly just out of his reach, which was absolutely maddening. Octavius rarely forgot anything, so the feeling of having an idea or memory on the tip of his tongue but being unable to articulate it was quite unfamiliar. It added to his ordinary stress on the eve of the invasion, with the consequence that, as the vanguard prepared to march into the Icemark, he was wrestling with the beginnings of what promised to be a truly spectacular headache.

_Marvelous. Fantastic. And the war has not even properly begun._

His thoughts were interrupted by the sounds of raised voices and running feet. From his position well outside the minimum safe distance, Octavius could see the demolition team hurriedly take shelter behind boulders and rock outcrops. With meltwater covering the floor of the pass, they had been unable to use long fuses and had resorted to slow-burning ones lit from perilously close by.

A massive explosion lit up Avalanche Pass as tons of standard gunpowder and newer, more powerful explosive compounds packed strategically in tunnels drilled deep into the glacier detonated at once. The result threw massive chunks of debris into the air and created a shock wave strong enough to ruffle Octavius' hair. Even hundreds of feet away, ice chips rained around the observers. Of course. The explosion _had_ to be incredibly powerful, to demolish an entire glacier. Granted, it wasn't a true glacier like those of the Ice Wastes or northern Tannhausers, more a wall of packed ice and snow, but still.

However, it had been an _impressive_ explosion. The echoes were still dying away. Not to mention the fact that it had hastened the process of the invasion, which was to his benefit. The faster the pass was clear, the faster he could get this nonsense over with and return to the Canyon Maze.

The all-clear was sounded and they rode forward in a loose arrowhead formation, closer to what had been the ice wall. The ice wall…it had looked suspiciously like a battlement. Man-made, not simply a convenient natural occurrence. Octavius had heard the rumors – _everyone_ had – that the Icemark had people who could control the weather, heal and kill with a touch, see the future, past and present, and look through a person's mind like reading a book. It was well documented that during the previous invasion one of Lindenshield's guards had used lightning – _lightning!_ – as a weapon, and afterwards had been said to have risen from the dead. Octavius suppressed a shiver.

As they drew nearer to the site of the explosion, massive ice chunks littered the floor of the pass and the ground was blackened and scorched. Only a small hill of debris remained to block the way, one that any infantryman worth his pay could easily scramble over. The cavalry, however, would be a different matter.

"Organize the first three regiments into a working party and have them clear a way through. I expect to be marching in under three hours," Scipio said quietly. His tone allowed for no argument, and his sons saluted and trotted away. As he and Sulla rode off, Octavius couldn't help but think that he was glad to be leaving.

\---------------------------------------  
  


Being out of Avalanche Pass had been a relief, but it could not last; soon enough they had to accompany the working parties back into the pass. Octavius' unease built with every step beneath the shadow of those cliffs. He watched as the advance regiments filed past, saluted, and disappeared around the bend, and as the battery of cannons and rockets was wheeled into place. Insurance, his father had said, and Sulla had agreed as he always did. Octavius had nodded and thought of mathematics. He tried to call up a particularly complex differential equation to occupy himself, but his thoughts kept straying back to the cliffs.

 _The pass, and all land in its vicinity, are empty of human life. Of all life. If there was a trap, the scouts would have seen._ Unless some magic had reached into their minds and made them forget, but that was ridiculous. He continued to scrutinize the tops of the cliffs and the mountain slopes beyond. He couldn't see them, but he knew the clifftops were patrolled by Imperial riflemen. It was not archers he worried about, though, as his eyes were drawn to the packed snow hanging on the slope above. _What would it take…_ an avalanche would fill this pass like a flooding canyon. His skin prickled as he imagined the snowpack coming loose and thundering toward them. It would be exactly what he would do, if he were Thirrin Lindenshield. Forget a set-piece battle. Draw his enemies in and bury them. It was _Avalanche_ Pass, after all.

"Something is troubling you," Sulla interrupted his thoughts.

"Why would you say that?"

"Your face is not as unreadable as you would like to imagine. If I could hazard a guess, you think we are walking into a trap. You aren't the only competent man in the army, you know. We checked the snowpack, it's clean."

"That is reassuring, but I am still not convinced. This too closely resembles the Maze." The possibility of a trap wasn't all that was troubling him, not that he was going to tell _anyone_ , let alone Sulla. The Great Gulf was only a day's ride from Silverstone and he wanted to see the crash site for himself, but that had been forbidden. It was a stupid desire, the wreck was probably buried in snow and any evidence destroyed by the elements, but the denial still rankled. He did not even know why he doubted the reports, but he was sure if he could have seen the claw marks for himself, he could have put his misgivings to rest.

"Have you heard about the courier?" Sulla inquired, changing the subject. "Disappeared en route from - "

"Why is it that you always assume I have no idea what is going on?" he snapped. He had not meant to, but it was becoming annoying and he honestly did not care what Sulla thought. Not to mention the fact that small talk was stupid and he wanted to shut down the conversation as quickly as possible.

His brother narrowed his eyes and seemed about to retort, but they were both distracted by a faint noise echoing from far into the pass. A faint _howling_. That wasn't wolves, there was some unnatural human quality to the howls that filled him with momentary irrational dread. Unconsciously, Octavius' hand flew to his saber. _Monsters. Real monsters_. At once he wanted to ride around the bend for a better view and flee back to Silverstone. Sulla appeared unaffected, leaning forward in his saddle as if by doing so he could get a glimpse of those creatures of nightmare.

He checked the clifftops again and squinted into the sun, just to be sure. He wasn't looking for avalanches this time, but for monsters leaping or swooping down to tear them apart. Octavius could only imagine what his father would say if, gods forbid, he suddenly gained the ability to read minds in addition to faces. He'd be furious, and rightly so. Fear was pathetic. They were as safe as they could possibly be.

Safety was always fleeting, though. The Maze had taught him that.

As if on cue, footsteps thundered beyond the bend. From the sound of it, the battle had become a rout, and it seemed as if their army was the one that was fleeing. Sulla hissed, Octavius' mouth twitched, and Scipio did not react, only watched and waited for the moment.

In a sudden flurry of noise and rock, pursuer and pursued rounded the bend and skidded to a halt. The remnants of the vanguard turned to face their enemy again, having seen the _contingency plan_ , but it was too late. The general nodded, and the cannons and rockets were fired, filling the narrow defile with flames and deadly shrapnel that indiscriminately ripped apart the soldiers of both sides.

 _Insurance. Insurance. We cannot allow any monsters across the border._ The cannons were reloaded and fired again, a second barrage of rockets were slid into place and launched, and rank after rank of musketeers fired into the burnt and bloody mess. _Insurance._ The rocket launchers were adjusted, and a third volley covered the floor of the pass with flame. _No one can escape. Insurance. They would have let those_ things _attack Silverstone. Distasteful, but it must be done._ Scipio Bellorum gave a silent nod, and the order for cease-fire was given. Beyond the line of cannons, nothing moved, and the stones were painted red. _Insurance._

Octavius watched blankly as the real vanguard of the invading army marched through the pass and into the Icemark.

_Veni, vidi, vici._

  
\---------------------------------------  
  


By the time they returned to Silverstone, the pressure in his skull had grown into a full headache, and he felt an almost uncontrollable urge to set something on fire. It was nearly impossible to endure waiting for the messages confirming victories at the other two passes. They were hardly even _necessary_ ; either the barbarians were defeated in a straight fight or killed along with the remnants of the decoy vanguard in the _contingency plan_. Victory, but it did not feel like a real one.

You didn't throw away lives like that in the Maze, you kept as many of your men alive as possible because you weren't getting any reinforcements. If one of his officers had suggested something like "insurance," he'd have assumed it was delirium and had the man treated for heatstroke. Yet for his father and brother, it was so insignificant as to be an afterthought.

Octavius took his leave from the conference room as soon as possible. It had become unbearable, stuffy and smoky, and if he had to listen to Sulla's smug comments even a minute longer he could not be held accountable for any injuries he might have inflicted. The night air was crisp and smelled of snow, not dry heat, and not for the first time, he wished he were back in the south. Not that it was much more pleasant than Silverstone, but he could have been keeping the Empire safe instead of freezing and doing nothing productive. Honestly, what did he add? This was a traditional invasion, and Octavius' specialty was _non_ traditional warfare, hunting rebels and terrorists in the places where conventional tactics would be foolishness.

As he approached his regiment's assigned huts he composed himself. No matter what he thought, he must always _appear_ calm. But his head was _pounding_ in time to his pulse, he could hardly look at a light source without stabbing pain behind his eyes, and he was in no mood to speak to anyone. When he noticed his second-in-command approach he sped up his pace, hoping to reach his campaign hut before he was forced to interact.

"Good evening, sir -" _Damn it._

"All three were successful, we ride tomorrow. Spread the word," he snapped, and shut the door, only hearing half of a "Yes, sir."

Caius Antilles sighed, although by this time he was used to it. Through the door, he heard something slam against a wall - hopefully nothing of value. As he turned away, muffled cursing in multiple languages reached his ears. It didn't take much to guess what had made the Commander so furious – word of the fate of the advance regiments had spread through the camp like wildfire, and such tactics were a shock for anyone used to serving in the Maze or the other remote regions of the Periphery. Antilles himself had heard it from Captain Saturninus and needed a moment to remember that for the other two Bellorums, such things were commonplace. The Commander likely had not taken it well, though he wouldn't say anything outright – he'd prefer to simply stew in his rage.

But Antilles would prefer to save such thoughts for tomorrow; now was the time to return to the warmth of his bunk and get some rest. There would be time enough for seriousness in the months to come.

\---------------------------------------  
  


In his dream Octavius sat, alone, in one of the Academy's large lecture halls, the regimented rows of desks receding into shadow. Directly in front of him, on the raised stage, was a slate with a simple equation written in chalk. He tilted his head to the side. It was indeed easy, too easy; he could solve it in a few minutes if not see the solution immediately.

There was paper, quills and an inkwell on the desk before him. He continued to stare at the equation, his mind working quickly, and after a short time the answer occurred to him. He was confident that his answer was correct, but decided to check it in the original equation just to be safe. After a few more seconds of calculation he narrowed his eyes.

 _Not so simple after all._ Obviously there was some trick involved, some puzzle. He excelled at puzzles.

More time passed and Octavius was forced to conclude that the problem was complex and difficult, despite its apparent simplicity. It was fascinating, yet the most infuriating puzzle he had encountered. At first glance it looked like a quick warm-up, but in fact it drew on concepts from all areas of his mathematical studies and could be described as the algebraic equivalent of the Canyon Maze, full of switchbacks, false starts, dead ends and traps. He found himself going in circles.

It _should_ have been easy. But there was simply no way that the information given could produce a satisfactory answer.

He was at the top of his class. He was particularly adept at noticing patterns and solving abstract puzzles, and could usually find the solution to equations simply by looking at them, yet he was becoming 

increasingly certain that he could not solve this problem. Could it even be solved?

"Of course it has a solution," said the voices of his professors, "and if anyone can find it, Bellorum, it's you."

It was not like him to surrender, and certainly not to an _equation_ , however difficult. _I_ will _find the solution, and I do not care how long it takes._

He checked the chalkboard again and blinked in surprise. There was something _different_ about the equation; had it changed since he last looked at it? Impossible. But then…the exponent had most certainly not been there before…he shook his head. Foolishness. He went about solving the version on the board, which he knew had to be the correct one, and again reached a dead end. Perhaps the voices had been joking when they mentioned a solution. He checked the equation again and, again, the slightest shift. A variable where one hadn't been before, a squared term now cubed.

Every time he looked away, it seemed, the equation changed a little, yet remained, on the surface, deceptively simple. None of the variations brought him any closer to a solution; each new clue only served to lead him deeper into the maze.

He was in the Canyon Maze, the real one, with sheer red cliffs rising on either side to a thin sliver of sky. He was on high alert, his heart pounding, searching for the enemies he knew were watching at that very moment. His shadow leapt and distorted on the wall as he turned. There! The faintest scratching of a boot on gravelly sand, from just around the bend in the canyon, magnified to louder than it really was and rebounding off the cliffs as if he were inside a huge speaking trumpet. But he heard the sound before it was distorted, and sprinted after it within a second.

He left no trace. No footsteps, misplaced stones or broken branches, but he can hear his footfalls. Whoever his quarry was knew this part of the Maze. They did not hesitate for a moment, but kept running, drawing him deeper and deeper into the labyrinth. He left the familiar canyons long ago, and ran now through deep, twisting slot canyons where, at times, the sunlight almost disappeared.

The way opened out to a fork. Several pillars of stone rose around him and he could see his target dive behind one of them. He headed for the smallest of the possible routes, perhaps hoping to escape pursuit in adjoining canyons or simply slow his pursuer enough to allow him to hide. _Good luck_. Octavius smiled viciously and followed.

The shape of the passage alerted him to a possible trap. The outlaws that made these canyons their base were in the habit of luring soldiers into just this type of passage and waiting for a flash flood. They then sat safely on high ground and watched the torrents sweep their enemies away. A strategy Octavius himself would use, although it made it no less annoying to contend with.

Laughter burst from up ahead. He vaguely recognized it, but it was so twisted that it was hard to place. This served only to frustrate him further, and he sped up, leaping boulders, running up the rock scrambles and skidding around tight hairpin turns.

Octavius emerged into a wider basin – not really a valley, but an opening of the canyon. Other passages twisted off in all directions, but he barely noticed. He stopped short and ducked behind an outcrop in case an ambush was waiting, but there was no attack. He managed to catch a quick glimpse of the enemy standing, waiting for him atop a pile of broken rock. He did not see enough of a face, but everything else screams that he should recognize him. The laugh, the stance, the smile, the almost second nature knowledge of the canyons.

He said nothing, did nothing but leap nimbly down the side of the pile. Octavius shot at him before he disappeared into a side canyon, but he ducked out of the way and the bullet hit the cliff, spraying sharp bits of rock. More laughter. He reloaded and followed – _I will kill you. I will win.  
_

So focused was he that he did not even feel the first droplet. But he noticed the next few, and he realized that they were picking up in intensity. A cloudburst, and he was in a tight canyon. He snarled and turned quickly, searching for a ledge or some other high ground. His only consolation, and it was a pathetic one, was that his enemy would have to seek out a refuge as well.

But it was not rain. The canyon was so deep that he could not see the sky, but it was not water that was falling on him. It was blood, seeping from the cracks in the cliffs and forming small streams on the parched ground. More began to splash down, falling in waterfalls from the top of the cliff and covering the canyon floor. It was quickly a river, the current tugging around his boots. He tried to climb the wall, but it was slick with the blood and he could not find holds.

As if the situation could possibly get any worse, he heard a roaring from deeper in the canyon. He did not want to look, but turned anyway to see the flood rushing toward him, accompanied by insane laughter.

Octavius woke with a scream in his mouth, scrabbling for solid ground.

 _Don't be foolish,_ he snapped at himself as the details of the room emerged from shadow, _it was only a dream. Dreams are the mind's activity as the body sleeps, they're meaningless._ Despite the nightmare's insignificance he was breathing hard. He could _feel_ the dream lurking in his subconscious, as if waiting to restart after he fell back asleep. _To drown in blood_ …he shook his head. This was stupid.

Perhaps, he considered, the dream was somehow linked to his state of mind during the day. He had read a few books on psychology, in part simply to gain knowledge and in part just in case they contained anything pertaining to his condition. They had not, but he had picked up some information on dream theory.

He crossed to the door and stepped outside into the snow. For a few seconds his feet ached and stung from the cold, but he was soon able to put it out of his mind. The equation could be no more than a manifestation of his thoughts during the day, the solution the elusive thing he could not name. The canyons – well, they were a significant part of his memories, perhaps his mind simply needed a setting for the dream and chose one he was most familiar with. And anyway, it was only a dream. He resolved to think no more about it.

To distract himself he looked up at the night sky, and after calculating Silverstone's latitude and longitude began reciting the names of the stars and constellations. The precise, methodical nature of this activity soothed his mind, and after a time he felt almost ready to sleep again. And it was becoming increasingly difficult to ignore the fact that he was barefoot in the snow.

As he turned, he glanced at the dark silhouettes of the Maidens Range, rising over Silverstone and blocking out the stars. The peaks, all in a line, resembled the teeth of some wild animal, and Octavius recalled that the mountains on either side of Avalanche Pass were called the Wolf Jaws. Upper and Lower Wolf Jaw. How fitting.

With thoughts of the mountains came thoughts of what was _beyond_ them, the events of the past day, tomorrow, the following weeks. Lindenshield, monsters, the _Aurora_ , too many coincidences. A four year old Emperor, last of his line, surrounded by some of the most ruthless, power-hungry officials Octavius had ever met.

He frowned. _Good luck sleeping now._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "The true sign of Quality Fic is cryptic and symbolic dreams" - me circa 2013, apparently


	5. Gathering Storm

The fleet had been sailing south for five days now over an increasingly glassy sea. The wind subsided until it was almost nonexistent, but with the sails spread to their fullest capacity, enough was present to move the ships slowly forward.

Sharley stood at the bow of the flagship, the _Horizon_ , as relaxed as was possible under the circumstances. He was no longer seasick, and could make his way across the slowly rolling deck without stumbling at last. He had resigned himself to being Regent to the Exiles and wearing the Ring of State. He was still quite nervous, but realizing that worrying would not help him lead his people or face the Doge of Venezzia, he had decided to devote his time to learning as much as he could from Maggiore Totus about the Empire and the nations of the Southern Continent.

But not everyone was so relaxed. He took a deep breath and thought he could tell what the sailors were muttering about; the air was not salty so much as _earthy_ , as if the breezes had originated over the land instead of over sea, as they should have. It was also unseasonably warm, with the sun beating down on the decks as if they had already reached the Southern Continent. Maggie had tried to apply his smattering of meteorological knowledge to the bizarre weather, but had soon given up. It simply defied all explanation, he said.

"Sail! Sail ho!" came the shout from the crow's nest. Sharley gave a start and searched the horizon. _All the way out here?_ Immediately, the atmosphere on the decks changed from that a fairly relaxed and average day to one thick with tension. They were off the coast of the Polypontian Empire by now – far off the coast, but still within distance of the Imperial Navy's patrols. The Polypontian navy was insignificant compared to their army and mainly used to protect shipping from pirates and to say they had one, but was still a danger. It could also be a ship of the pirate clans, but Sharley had always heard they hunted in packs. Or it could be nothing to fear – a merchant, maybe, or sea nomads.

"Where away?" bellowed Captain Sigurdson.

"East-northeast, Cap'n, an' flyin' Empire flags!" Sigurdson and his officers hurried to the rail as the refugees on deck quailed and made for belowdecks. Sharley stood frozen as images of the chaos in the square filled his head. _They are only one, and we have a fighting escort_. _As long as we can keep out of range of their cannons, we should be safe,_ he tried to reassure himself, _but unless we destroy them or disable them they will keep chasing us. All right now, you're Regent, what would Mom do?_ As the captain called out orders to his crew, Sharley made his way to the rail. Maggie, roused from his books by the commotion, climbed onto the deck and joined him.

Sigurdson handed him a telescopic monoculum. "It'd appear we've got ourselves a problem, Your Eminenceses." Sharley could spy the problem on the horizon, growing larger. He didn't know much about seafaring vessels, but he guessed the battleship was somewhat larger than the _Horizon_ , and more streamlined as well, maybe intended to hunt and fight pirates. He began to make out the cannons poking from its sides, and the oars dipping in rhythm.

"Only one?" Maggie seemed perplexed.

"Rightly so. Corsairs an' Zephyrs don't have the range the Imperials do, wi' their cannons an' rockets, so's they can go alone an' still be dangerous."

 _Rockets are new._ "Can we outrun them?" Sharley asked.

"Per'aps, yer Highness. We've got the better wind, but they'll be havin' oars well as sails. We'll be havin' us a stern chase, I 'spect."

"So all we have to do is stay out of range of their cannons and try and lose them?

"That'd be ideal, but with this slow wind, might be the dragon galleys'll have a fight on their hands."

 _I'd really rather we didn't need to._ The other ship had come even closer as they spoke – the Polypontian lookouts had sighted the fleet and the battleship was making for them at all speed, sails at their fullest with the oars lending extra propulsion _._ The dragon galleys were forming up between the pursuer and the rest of the fleet, while the refugee ships tried to catch whatever wind they could and sail out of immediate danger. _They couldn't possibly mean to engage the fighting escort all by themselves._ Through the monoculum, Sharley could see tiny figures moving about on the decks of the enemy ship, and then two puffs of smoke from near the bow.

There was a high-pitched whistling in his ears, growing louder. "Charlemagne," Maggie's eyes were fixed on the other vessel, "We really ought to go below." And the bow of one of the dragon galleys exploded.

"What -"

"Get below, now!" Sigurdson ordered, all formality forgotten.

"But I should -" Maggie tugged Sharley toward the nearest hatchway. The crew of the galley was in disarray, Sigurdson was bellowing at his men, archers rushed to the rails and into the rigging with their bows, men on the decks of the other dragon galleys were winding ballistae, and the air was suddenly _full_ of the whistle and shatter of rockets. "Maggie, I'm Regent, I need to –" He broke away and made for the upper deck, but a sailor caught him and bundled him down the ladder.

"You'll only be in the way up there, Sharley." Maggie told him as they walked down the swaying companionway toward their cabin, "Sigurdson and his men already have enough on their hands without having to worry about their Prince Regent."

"My mother would be with them! She'd be fighting, not hiding in her cabin like some coward!" Sharley almost wailed, "Look, Maggie, I just want to _help_!"

"There's nothing your mother, or you if you could fight, could do up there right now. We'll be trading rockets and cannon shot and flaming ballista bolts, and then hopefully we'll be able to shake them. You need to keep yourself safe – remember, you're the Prince Regent, effectively the king of the population in exile. You must think about them before yourself. It is not cowardice to live for your people. "

"I can't just go back to my cabin, then. I'll go…talk to the citizens. Reassure them," Sharley paused and looked at his tutor, "That is what a Prince Regent should do, right?"

"That is exactly what a Prince Regent should do," Maggie smiled, "See, you're learning well."

Sharley led the way to the _Horizon_ 's main hold as the whistle of rocket fire and thrum of ballistae receded above him. His stomach was a knot, but he knew if he was to meet with the citizens he had to project calm. If the refugees knew how worried their prince was, they might panic themselves. If he couldn't fight off the Polypontians himself, he could at least keep his people from being overwhelmed by fear.

As Sharley entered the hold, he was hit by a wave of sound – worried talking, prayers, reassurances, questions, children crying, wailing babies. The hold had been converted into bunks and hammocks, and it was packed with peasants and the few belongings they had been allowed to bring. There were so many on board that some had taken to sleeping on the deck, but they had all fled back to this one room when the Imperial ship was sighted. There were almost no men and women of fighting age; when Sharley swung open the door, he was faced with fearful children, mothers, the infirm and the elderly. With one look at their drawn faces, he knew he would have his work cut out for him.

"What's happening?"

"It's the Empire, isn't it, they've got us, we'll all die -"

"They'll sink us!"

"-Odin protect us-"

"-don't want to die-"

For a moment Sharley was seized by indecision and nervousness. Had he made it worse by coming here? Maybe he should have gone to his cabin and waited out the battle. The fear in the cabin was so thick he could have cut it with a knife. He couldn't possibly do anything to help them, him, the crippled prince, the weakling, the shy one, the object of pity. But then he felt a stirring in his chest and limbs, which his mother would have recognized as the fighting blood of Lindenshield coming to life in a time of trial. _I may not be able to fight,_ he told himself, _but I'll do what I can. I can do this. I can._

"Everyone?" Sharley began haltingly, "Please listen up, listen to me! Everyone!" A few passengers near him noticed, but those farther back continued to talk amongst themselves; too absorbed in their fear even as the whispers of the Prince Regent's appearance began to reach them. " _Everyone quiet_!" he shouted, and slowly the cries died down to murmurs and mutters and the occupants of the hold turned their eyes on him. "I…er…" he stalled, disconcerted by the amount of attention, "Well, there is a Polypontian ship, you all know, I won't lie..."

"They're shooting at us!" cried an old man, "We all heard it, heard it hit the ship! We're going to burn and sink and drown!

"No, no! No one's going to burn or sink or drown. They didn't hit our ship. The dragon galleys will protect us. There are ten of them to one enemy, don't worry," Sharley tried to think of more ways to comfort the refugees, but he himself hardly believed what he was saying. Lie? _I can lie, maybe. If it makes them feel safer now, there's no harm? Is there?_ He was so unsure, but he couldn't turn and ask Maggie for direction. It was all on him. "We're sailing away from the danger right now. The Captain and his crew will get us out of this, don't fear." He could see his words were beginning to have some effect: people still looked frightened, but not so close to breaking as they had. "We'll be fine."

There was silence in the hold but for the sniffling children and crying babies. Calmness was gradually beginning to return to the crowd. There was still _tension_ , to be sure, but the panic was dissipating. One woman even began to sing an old fisherman's song. _That's a distraction_. Sharley mentally shrugged and joined in on the refrain, and soon other passengers were singing along in quavering voices. The children perked up, raising their teary faces from their mothers' skirts. Sharley glanced back at Maggiore and saw him smiling and humming along.

Sharley couldn't tell how long he stayed in the hold, walking amongst the refugees, joining their songs, talking to them, getting to know them and learning their stories. He was talking to an elderly couple, a farmer and his wife from a village in the foothills of the Dancing Maidens, when Maggie tapped his shoulder gently. He finished talking to the cobbler and turned to see a skinny cabin boy who seemed deeply interested in his toes. "Beg pardon, Your Highness, but the Cap'n wants t' talk with you an' Master Totus. Imperials're out o' sight, fer now, and Cap'n's got a plan for losin' 'em more if you'll hear it, he says, Highness," the cabin boy said softly and somewhat nervously.

Sharley grinned. "Thank you, Wally," he turned to survey the circle of refugees that had gathered around him, "We lost them!" This was greeted by relieved laughter, clapping, a few cheers and more thanks to the gods. It took Sharley a further few minutes to make his way to the door, shaking hands, accepting blessings and dispensing final reassurances. When they closed the door, he turned to Maggie and grinned.

"You did quite well in there, Sharley. A true Prince Regent. When the citizens saw you weren't afraid, they weren't either."

"But I was afraid. I was terrified."

"You hid it, though, that's the key thing. You won't _be_ confident all the time, but a leader must _portray_ confidence all the time." By this time the pair were climbing the ladder to the deck. _Portray confidence._ Sharley clambered on to the deck and stopped in his tracks.

The _Horizon_ itself had sustained minimal damage, as the fighting escort had delayed the Polypontians long enough for the refugee fleet to get out of range. But the dragon galleys bobbing alongside the ships were a different story entirely. Four were gone, almost all remaining were damaged. Wounded men and women were currently being lifted onto the _Horizon_ 's deck, where the ship's healer could see to them. Some were burned, some missing limbs, some with enormous splinters protruding from their flesh. The dead were being wrapped in sailcloth shrouds. Sharley felt like vomiting. _This is war –_ _no, this isn't war._ _This is one skirmish. War is what's happening back home_. He was paralyzed with fear for his family and grief for the sailors who'd died to protect the fleet, but remembered what Maggie had said about confidence. Even though all he wanted to do was flee back to his cabin, he forced himself to continue on to the poop deck where the captain was waiting.

"Well, Captain Sigurdson?" Sharley inquired.

" _Well_ , your Eminenceses, we lost 'em. Fer now. Might be they run off, seein' as the ballistas shot up their riggin' some, but I'd as soon assume they're over t' horizon out o' sight an' still followin'. Somethin' 'bout the weather ye should hear, 's well, figures in what I've got planned." Sharley nodded and Sigurdson glanced meaningfully at the sky. "'S brewin' up a storm. An' what's more, 's brewin' up a massive storm, or my name's not Lokri Sigurdson, an' that's a fact."

"How long do we have 'til it hits?"

"One an' a half days, two tops." As he spoke, the captain unrolled a large leather map showing the coast of the Polypontus and several strings of islands. "There's a island right 'bout here," he pointed at an empty spot on the map, "Too small ter include, old sea nomad harbor, three days south of here. But with a good wind, such as this storm'll kick up, and a followin' high sea ter push us, we can make it and take shelter on the leeward side. Safe from th' storm, and with luck it'll smash them Imperials or they'll think us lost." He grinned. "So, your Hignesseses?"

"It's our best chance," Sharley said, "So what now? Make for the island?"

"We make for the island. An' I'd be preparin' myself for some mighty foul weather."

_\-----------------------_

That night Sharley stood on the quarterdeck with Maggie, watching the bodies of the slain be buried at sea. Sharley couldn't remember where, but he'd heard that sailors always put the last stitch through the nose to make sure the man was really dead. The captain gave the dead their last rites as the crew and refugees watched in silence. As each fallen sailor slid beneath the waves, the, ripples disturbed the stars mirrored in the glassy sea.

After the funeral the crowds dispersed, and Sharley was left alone with the sailors who held the watch. He was left alone, and he preferred it that way. The row of shrouds had brought it all home. _They died protecting us._ It felt strange to be alive. Sharley walked to the bow, head tipped back to watch the rigging sway overhead, and tried to clear his mind of the entire day. Captain Sigurdson had ordered all lights doused, so the only way he knew the rest of the fleet was following was by their shadows against the stars.

Stars littered the sky like sparks thrown from the anvil of the gods. Reflected in the water, they gave the impression of sailing through the universe. For a whimsical moment, Sharley imagined himself a space-sailor whose ports were planets and whose seas were the wide empty spaces between the galaxies. Oddly enough, standing on a ship in the middle of the ocean after a funeral, chased by his enemies and menaced by a storm, he managed to feel the most peaceful that he had the entire journey so far.

He stood like that for a while, and then turned for his cabin. Doing so, he caught a glimpse of the horizon to the stern, and the storm clouds that loomed there like mountains. Lightning reflected against their undersides, and a wind that smelled like rain filled the sails. _Best brace yourself_ , he thought, _there's some foul weather ahead._

_\-----------------------_

The storm was a nightmare.

Maggie had strapped Sharley and himself to chairs in their cabin to ride it out, and was now in the process of getting well and truly drunk. He'd offered Sharley some wine too, but the prince spilled it on the first swell and probably couldn't have kept it down anyway. Sharley had initially wanted to be on deck with the sailors – _'No, you're a liability,"_ – then in the hold with the refugees. Even that had been vetoed. _Maggie probably thinks I'll get bonked in the head with someone's provisions or vomited on_ , Sharley had thought bitterly. Now, though, he was glad of his cabin and his securely bolted chair.

The _Horizon_ was pitching and rolling every which way, sometimes almost horizontal or vertical. Sharley could hear the wind shriek through the rigging, and feel the ship's superstructure vibrate with the pounding of the waves. He had long exhausted his voice screaming – _probably lucky I wasn't sharing that with the hold_ – but Maggie's drunken sea shanties were still going strong. _Whatever makes him happy, though, seeing as we're about to sink sink sink Odin this is it this is it Aegir and Rán and their nine daughters this is it –_ The ship was nearly standing on its stern, and Sharley was certain it was going to flip over backwards, but against all his fears it tipped forward and rushed down, feeling like it was about to fall off the wave and go spinning through the air. His only consolation was that if they were having trouble, so were the Polypontians. The deck of their ship was probably hell, though.

Sharley clung to the arms of his chair as the ship hit the bottom of the trough with a bone-rattling crash. How the hull didn't fall apart, he didn't know. Maggie, he wanted to talk to Maggie – but Maggie was incoherent, muttering something about bull walruses and occasionally breaking out into snippets of nonsense songs. They were rising again, higher and higher, tipping to starboard until a wave washed over them and rocked them back to port. Dimly, over the sound of the waves, Sharley could hear the crew shouting to each other – and then an explosion and ear-splitting, creaking, screaming, rending crash.

The ship was rising with a swell, but something was dragging it back, turning it around like a massive anchor. "-it away, cut it -" Sharley could only hear bits and pieces. Horrifyingly, the ship began to tilt – no, not tilt, _sink._

If Sharley hadn't lost his voice, he would have been screaming, but as it was all he could do was mouth prayers. They were being dragged down, the ocean had them, the fish would eat his eyes…and then they were bobbing back up, free of whatever it was, and sliding backwards down a wave. The _Horizon_ skated over the trough, up the face of another wave, teetered at the crest, and plummeted almost straight down. They hit the trough at the bottom, the ocean boiled up beneath them, and the ship crashed back down into an impossible calm.

Sharley broke down and sobbed.

\------------------------

Lucretia Felix, Deputy Director of the Imperial Intelligence Agency, sat in her office reading the latest dispatches from Tienjing as the fringes of the storm began to lash the city. The windowpanes rattled, and the trees in Triangle Square whipped back and forth in a sudden gust. She was pleased; events in the east were unfolding in a way mostly beneficial to the Empire. There was the small matter of a minister loudly opposed to allowing Polypontian merchants into the interior as required by the Treaty of Yuen Shan, but Felix doubted he would have any success. The Director of Operations for Tienjing had concluded that this particular official was too principled to be bribed, ordered him watched closely and requested authorization of his elimination if necessary. It was unnecessary to involve the Director himself for something so small, so Felix signed off on it herself.

This weather was absolutely frightful. She was just considering calling for tea when a soft knock came on the door. "Enter," she called. Her secretary stepped into the office.

"From the Director, Ma'am," he reported, placing a nondescript leather document case on her desk.

"Thank you, Mr. Ovidius, you may go. Oh," she remembered as he reached the door, "bring some tea. Mint."

"Right away, Ma'am."

After he had gone, Felix unlatched the case and withdrew the files it contained. The files on top were all detailed background information from Analysis – reports from Venezzia and the other Talian states, the Hellenic Isles, the Desert Kingdom, and the Icemark, and several biography files. Next came a new report on the recent operation in Old Haven: the engineer was dead, but the operative had been killed as well, and the first refugee fleet had set sail with the prince aboard. Apparently, the operative had been shot at – how could their watchers possibly have missed the barbarians' acquiring _firearms?_ – by someone accompanying the prince. Not a guard, though. The report said the shooter was an elderly civilian in a sedan chair, male, short beard, possibly Talian. She knew that the prince's tutor was accompanying him south, but the man was over eighty – however, he fit the description. And the tutor – she skimmed through the biographies – Signore Maggiore Totus, formerly a professor of history and political theory at the Universitá di Venezzia, was also one of Queen Thirrin's advisors. Well, it didn't take too much strength to fire a pistol. And who knew, perhaps the man was more than just a tutor.

Most interesting, though, were the instructions to meet with the Director personally in his office when she had finished reviewing the files – and she could guess what kind of assignment the Director wanted to discuss.

Lucretia Felix rarely smiled, but she did now. 


	6. Absurd Equations

"I could lead a counterattack against Bellorum and drive him back through the pass!"

"You'll do no such thing." Thirrin removed a carved marker from the map and placed it in a box. The army of the Southern Riding no longer existed, and only castle and town garrisons stood now against the Polypontian armies. "I expect the three forces will rendezvous at Valby and continue north. I've called the Southern barons to Frostmarris. Their remaining troops can supplement our own." Cressida seethed. She knew very well that the Alliance strategy had been decided months in advance and none of it involved her leading a strike team against the invaders, but the need to do something, anything, was almost unbearable. Thirrin continued, "The next stage of the war will begin at the Five Burroughs. The town garrisons will drain Bellorum's force of men and resources; he will have to defeat them all to safely advance on Frostmarris."

"There must be something more we can do."

"Like precisely _what_ , Cressida? What strategy do you have that wastes fewer lives than this one? We cannot hold the south, yet we cannot allow the Empire's full strength to reach Frostmarris. We must wait here and defeat him in a long trial of strength while making every inch of ground cost dear." Her mother paused and softened. "I dislike this as well, but we have no choice."

Cressida gritted her teeth. "But we're sending them out and we _know_ we're going to lose them! It's – if the battles could be _won_ , but they can't and we know, they're just a token gesture- " _When do we become as uncaring of our soldiers' lives as the Empire_ , but she bit it back. That was too much of a low blow, and inaccurate. Her mother cared, and every Alliance soldier set to die in the south weighed on her conscience. She could see that easily enough in Thirrin's face as she removed the marker signifying the thousands at the Wolf Jaws. _This is war, Cressida. People are going to die; you tear yourself up over every lost life and you'll never last_.

Tharaman-Thar took a deep breath, cutting through the tension. "Might I suggest a little lunch? We must keep up our strength, after all."

"Good idea!" Grishmak said with enthusiasm.

Thirrin sighed and almost smiled. "It's almost time for dinner anyway. Let's go and see if they're ready for us." They rose and almost instinctively fell into the ranks of precedence, with the ruling monarchs leading the way and their consorts and the crown princess following behind.

As the doors to the Great Hall opened on a swell of noise, Cressida ducked out of the procession, telling herself she wasn't hungry. The lists would be near empty at this time; she could get some training in and get food from the kitchens later. She could think, undisturbed. And – and she wouldn't have to see Cerdic and Eodred, she finally admitted as she took a back door out into the training yard. Wouldn't have to sit there while they ignored her. They had had words a few days back, things had been said, things that cut a little to close for comfort. _Superior, cold, and generally nasty – and we've decided we're just not going to talk to you –_ how could she have known her own siblings could harbor such deep resentment for her? She knew by not facing them she was giving them a victory, but she just didn't want to. _What if that's how everyone thinks of me?_ _A future leader should just_ see _these things!_

Cressida picked up a bow and loosed an arrow at one of the straw-man targets. Archery had never been one of her strong points, though she was more than passable – she much preferred the sword or the battle-axe, and at that moment shooting just didn't provide the stress relief she craved. Cerdic and Eodred – family was supposed to have your _back_. Everything she'd done, everything she'd said to them, it had only been for their own _good_. She skewered the target through its painted eye with finality and replaced the bow on its rack. What could she do? Start – cracking jokes like their housecarle friends?

This couldn't have come at a worse time. She should be preparing to fight, not worrying…worrying about whether the twins hated her. She strode over to the throwing axes, feeling sickeningly helpless and hating it. Her brothers had abandoned her and she'd been completely blind to it. The Empire was bearing down on Frostmarris, town by town, lost cause by lost cause. She wanted to _do_ something, not just wait in the citadel for a siege. _But what?_ Everything was outside her control, people's opinions, the war, the whole mess.

For a single horrible moment, the sinking feeling that the Alliance would lose washed over her. They were doing everything they could, but the Polypontus just kept coming. Size, sheer overwhelming flood-like size. The axe spun from her hand and buried itself in the center of the target. _That's your head, Bellorum, you bloody sick monster. I can control my aim._

_\---------------------------_

There were no traps. _Why_ were there no traps?

Avalanche Pass had been bad enough. Certainly, _certainly_ the barbarians were going to trigger some nasty surprise, that couldn't have been _it._ He had ridden through expecting at any moment to be under attack. Instead the field had been stone silent and completely still. The Southern Riding was somehow worse – ghost villages that should have been mined with explosives, trees that should have hid snipers – but no, nothing out of the ordinary at all, except all the people were gone.

Perhaps the very lack of traps was a trap. Perhaps it was all a fiendish mind game of Lindenshield's – lull them into thinking that nothing was going to happen until the roads exploded under their feet. They must still have the powder seized after the first invasion. So _why were there no traps?_

In addition, it was damp and cold and he hadn't been properly warm in weeks and he still could not sleep. That just made everything so much _worse_.

The army had been marching for over two days through the foothills of the Maidens Range, and Octavius was past ready for open space, even if it did mean a battle. The deep pines were too close, too dark, and too perfect for monsters to hide in and drop down to ambush them. When the trees opened up, the empty skeletons of burnt-out villages were no better. The first town of any significance was called Inglesby, and according to the maps was situated at the edge of the forest and the beginning of flat farmland. For the millionth time, Octavius scanned the branches above him. That would be a relief.

 _Damn this place._ At least the canyons were warm.

He had not slept well the night before. They had made camp in the ruins of a village, and the army's fires had stretched down the road out of sight. After he had gotten over the fact that night would be the perfect time for a horde of screaming barbarians to try and catch them unawares, he had endured the nightly meeting and attempted to sleep only to wake seemingly every few minutes. The last time he awoke had been to see a child covered in blood holding out a slate, and then he'd woken for real. He spent the rest of the night watching the forest.

As the army approached the first target, Octavius felt himself sliding back into sleep. That was bad, that was _very bad_. He had had worse nights of sleep in his life, part of his training had been functioning while sleep deprived. Two nights of unsound sleep was nothing, cadet stuff. But there had been _writing_ on the slate, what was – _no_. He would _not_ think about it. Dreams were meaningless. He had to focus on what was real.

They emerged from the forest to a wide expanse of rolling ground. In the summer, in peacetime, it would probably have been farmland, but now it lay fallow, deserted and eerily still. Octavius didn't like it, but then again, he didn't like much of anything. Anyway, he told himself, minesweepers would have already scoured the roads. The Empire held the plain. Any traps were sprung.

The shadows of sky-ships began to flow over the plain. The early thaw had been fortunate indeed; the town would likely fall in a day. He wondered absently what was going through the minds of the town's garrison as the flying machines advanced and the first rocket salvo whistled across the sky. Soon the walls were peppered with explosions that threw bodies wide, and the escort of kites broke away to throw shrapnel grenades and pepper canisters. This stage of the attack did not last long; the kites climbed away on thermals, the galleons cleared the walls and the bombs were released. The shattering crump of explosions tore through the city, followed by the delicate blooming of flames. A strange song arose from the dying settlement, as the roar of the fire mingled with the screams of those still trapped inside.

 _What did they think they could gain by attacking that sky-ship? They must have known._ It did not make sense. Logically, after such a narrow victory, the barbarians should not have tried to engage the Empire a second time. Ridiculous, illogical, an equation with no solution. _Those pointless equations, which have no possible solution, are called absurdities._ Scipio gave a signal, and regiments of infantry and heavy cavalry marched forward to cover the gates and kill anyone attempting to escape. _And this is absurd_.

_\---------------------------_

The postern gate had been blasted off its hinges by rockets and the stone of the walls blackened. Bodies and bits of bodies lay in disarray, and the only sound was the crackle of fire, the crumble of falling masonry and the wind whistling through the tunnel. To ordinary people, the atmosphere would be eerie, but the only thing that bothered Octavius was the smoke. Made it harder to see and breathe. Annoying. Scipio smiled thinly before leading his sons and most senior staff officers through the broken gate. "The first of many."

Corpses were everywhere, and not just of soldiers. There had still been a small population of civilians left in this town, to support the garrison, and almost all had been slaughtered. Octavius could still hear intermittent gunfire as Imperial troops encountered survivors hiding from the bombs in cellars and crawlspaces. The air still carried the bite of gunpowder and pepper, and the party was forced to navigate around the dead as it made its way to the still-intact artisans' quarter.

"Pathetic, isn't it? I wonder why they even bothered," Sulla nodded at a dead fyrdsman and chuckled.

"It's ridiculous," and everything Octavius had been turning over in his mind during the battle rushed forth, "Lindenshield knew there was no way she could win, so why throw all these men at us? Why is her strategy centered on towns and cities that we all know are lost? Where are the _traps_ , Sulla? She has fewer men to begin with, so why throw them away with both hands?"

"You remember what Father said: the Alliance will be about as sophisticated as a cornered animal, we shouldn't expect subtlety or art. The way we think and the way ordinary people think are different, and we're _better_ ," Sulla snorted and turned away, "First time I've ever heard a man complain about _less_ work."

 _And he's right, isn't he?_ No one had ever heard anything to suggest Thirrin Lindenshield's mind was anything other than ordinary. It would be unrealistic of him to expect his opponent to perform at his level; he was a prodigy, a tactical genius, Bellorum. While he should never underestimate anyone, he shouldn't overestimate either; he was worrying about nothing, seeing patterns where none existed. The barbarian queen's tactics were blunt, straightforward, and overall ordinary. He needed to focus on the mission at hand and stop getting _sidetracked_ analyzing traps and hidden motives. _And that goes for_ everything, he thought as he looked at his father and brother, _you overthink._

Rubble shifted and crunched under his horse's hooves, and it sounded like marbles.

_\---------------------------_

The crowd pressed in around him, loud and smelly and shoving. He'd never been among so many people. Everywhere he looked was something else interesting. It was so much more fun to walk on the street unaccompanied – it was almost like he was just another average citizen. He munched on a sweet pastry as he made his way through the market. This was really his best idea ever – Father would never be able to find him among all these people, and in a day or so he'd go live at Uncle's house and everything would be like it was. Mostly. But for _now_ he could enjoy the city's biggest and busiest market like he never could before. Crowds were _security risks_ for a young patrician, but not for a boy like the one he was pretending to be. He should make up a fake name, too. It would be like being a spy, an _adventure_.

This place had a stall for everything! The one over there had all books. Maybe he should go and get a history one for Uncle, who liked to read. And a toy stall, there were probably puzzles in there. Maybe they had the cube one, where you had to make all the sides the same color. Oh, that woman was carrying the most _enormous_ fish, even bigger than him! He didn't know where to go next.

There was a circle of children in an alley between two tents. They all seemed to be his age, three boys and a girl. Her braids were tied with red ribbons. They were all concentrating on something, a game of some sort. There was a circle drawn in chalk on the cobbles, and the children were rolling marbles into it and trying to knock each other's outside the line. The girl with red hair ribbons noticed him watching and grinned. "Hi there!"

"Good day," he said awkwardly.

"What?"

"Um… _hi_?"

"You want to play with us?"

"I don't have any marbles. I can't."

"You can borrow some of mine. Come on, play!" She ran to him and pressed an amber cat's-eye into his hand.

Before he could answer, there was a billowing roar and the square was full of deadly light. Everything was fire and heat and smoke and noise as he was thrown back off his feet and tumbled through the air. Bits of cobblestones flew past and one struck him a glancing blow on the forehead. A tongue of fire flicked across his legs. He slammed into the ground and all the air flew out of him, something cracked and stabbing pain lanced across his ribs, his head struck the cobbles and light burst behind his eyes.

He was lying on the ground. His legs were agony, he couldn't breathe, everything was turning over and over and he couldn't hear and something warm and wet was all over his scalp. He raised a hand and it came away shiny red. Smoke and rubble were all around him, but what he though was a chunk of stone was a head. He was moving his mouth, shouting for help, but he couldn't hear what he was saying.

He couldn't recognize the square anymore. The buildings around it were all different, the whole _city_ had been bombed. People were moving through the smoke on horseback. He cried out, and one turned. The figure stood over him, and he saw his own face. The man with his face raised a pistol.

Octavius woke all at once, sweaty and shaking. The dream had felt so real. It always did. He'd had the same one since he was six, another anonymous victim in the overcrowded main ward of Romula's central hospital. Only he hadn't had the dream for years, and no one else was ever in it, after the bombs went off. He just lay there, scraps of paper and ash drifting down onto his face, until he woke up. This ending was new and made no sense. The buildings were different, and the army hadn't come after the market was bombed, the City Watch had.

 _Bombs at the Curia and the Triangle, but the most were at the Exchange. The busiest target, and the most psychologically damaging to civilians._ He reached into his pack and and withdrew a dull amber shard, which he played with in his hands. The marble had shattered when he hit the ground, but he still kept the largest piece to remind himself why. " _Of course you could be a doctor, if you wish to only react. They could not have prevented this; only clean up once the damage is done. But if that is what you want-" I don't want anything like this to happen again. I want to protect the Empire._

What was he doing this far north of anything that mattered? He pulled his slate across the tent, called up an integral and began to work. It was soothing, but not enough. His mind never stopped. The condition, the irrationality nestled deep in his brain, never went away. And now it had consumed his conscious life. Nothing was rational. If things were rational, he'd be keeping the peace in the Maze and the army would never have set foot in this godsforsaken place.

Protect the Empire. Give its enemies a free pass for mayhem, more like.

Something was not right. Impossible equations and Antilles' face and rubble that made him think of marbles. He rubbed out the integral and attempted to diagram his thoughts. Each related. How, though? How did they relate and why could he half-know but not articulate it? No one but Sulla and Scipio looked like they were enjoying themselves, but when he met up with Antilles after the battle he looked like he'd seen a ghost. He closed his eyes and visualized a web of threads, with each variable as a knot. Start with the most obviously strange; family always looked like they were having a grand old time when no one else was, Antilles was usually fairly stoic. Outliers always mean something. Antilles then, and see where that thread led him.

Caius Antilles was the son of an army doctor. Dr. Julian Antilles left for the Imperial Health Service, the Emperor's project to bring modern medicine to rural areas and thereby improve the lives of his subjects. His clinic was in the Pawa Valley, not quite the Periphery but dangerous all the same. Two native tribes in Pawa with an old religious conflict stifled by Polypontian presence. After the first Icemark invasion, Pawa was one of the first regions to descend into chaos; one tribe attempted to exterminate the other. Dr. Antilles and his wife were never heard from again, their son turned up in a refugee camp set up by the army and later enlisted. Of course. How could he have forgotten? _They are ordinary, and you are better_. Antilles was clever and a skilled soldier, but ordinary, with an ordinary mind's handicaps. This…project of Scipio's must remind him of the Pawa conflict. None of their other deployments had because none of them had deliberately targeted civilians, Antilles looked like he'd seen a ghost because he was ordinary and one dead noncombatant looked much like any other.

Well, that was Antilles' problem. Octavius could only hope that it would not impair him. It was times like these when he was grateful for the focus the condition provided, not having to deal with the distractions ordinary people encountered. Until, of course, this campaign and these unsolvable equations.


	7. The Mind's Activity

The war was progressing well. Exceedingly well, one might even say, though Octavius was always hesitant to speak too soon. All the major Imperial newspapers were celebrating the victories in the Southern Riding with articles washed clean of gore and full of praise for the valiant soldiers defending the Empire from the barbarian menace. Little was mentioned of cleansing, little more of the Empire's losses. Sulla was busy as a bee directing press relations alongside his other responsibilities, deciding what was released and when it would be most advantageous.

Octavius was on his way to the hospital, taking a detour along what remained of the city wall. Any way he could stall what he was about to do, he would. His skin crawled with almost-shame. Consulting a doctor about this stupid sleeping issue, when others were actually wounded. Consulting a doctor about this sleeping issue when he should be a pillar of strength, an example for his men to follow. Having this sleeping issue in the first damn place. But it was _necessary_ , said his logical brain, if he couldn't sleep he couldn't concentrate or think, and he had to be able to respond to anything. He had nearly collapsed earlier and it was only by sheer luck no one had seen.

He couldn't go a night without dreaming. The dreams woke him up. Consequently, he had not had a full night's sleep for as long as the army had been in the Icemark. It was like his mind was working a problem without consciously doing so, fingers of thought reflexively tugging at a stubborn knot. During the day he just felt preoccupied, unsatisfied, but at night this subconscious activity must be manifesting as the most unsettling of dreams.

" _You have a secret_." The world shuddered. He steadied himself against the rampart, dug his nails deep into his palm and forced his eyes to stay open. The sharp pain was grounding. " _Tell them. Tell them your secret._ "

"I'm going to the hospital. I'm going to get rid of you." _Sweet reason, don't_ talk _to it_.

The child was at his elbow, tugging on his sleeve and leaving smears of blood. He had the ever-present slate. " _Tell them!"_ Octavius jerked backward and upward, awake again. He was falling asleep on his feet, seconds at a time. It had happened a little before, seeing the child or the slate, red hair ribbons disappearing around a corner or pines transforming into canyon walls. And since his thinking was impaired, he could not tell that he was dreaming or had even fallen asleep until he woke up. He recalled reading about a study on stages of sleep in the context of ensuring proper rest for troops during drawn-out battles; deep mental rest and dreaming were theorized to occur only when the subject's eyes moved rapidly, a few hours into sleep. He must be so sleep deprived that this stage was reached immediately every time he closed his eyes, which due to his fatigue was often.

That was it. They came from the weeks of bad or no sleep. A natural reaction of the brain, though admittedly disturbing. Anything else was unthinkable.

No more stalling. _You've faced a lot worse than some doctors._ Practically forcing his eyes open, Octavius hurried towards the nearest intact stair. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a lone figure making its way to the center of the battlefield where the barbarian corpses were piled. Lieutenant Antilles, holding a bundle of body which he placed almost tenderly on the pile. And he didn't even remember closing his eyes, but that was how it always was.

He reached the hospital, still tents outside the wall as the city was newly captured. Crossing into the hospital sector was like stepping into an inverted world, military efficiency and knowledge mustered to save lives, neutral and passive. In here with respect to medical matters, the doctors outranked even him. Octavius headed for the main supply tent, locating near the operating wards. It was quiet; the battle had concluded yesterday and the wounded were already dead, dying in a morphine fog or recovering. Most would return to service. Some would go home crippled to small pensions and few job prospects for a man missing a limb. And in this particular campaign, the doctors were seeing more and more invisible injuries – fighting monsters, like spending months in labyrinthine canyons, did things to a man's mind if he wasn't careful. _I am not one of them. I have my condition, but I am not one of them_. The men who didn't speak or screamed at shadows, who refused to eat or broke down in tears when they saw the color red. _This is not a new symptom._ Mother's head doctor approached him, a sheaf of papers in his hand and concern on his face that cost a hundred aurii.

He had to hold himself back from sprinting for the pharmacy after that one. Instead, he wiped his face clean of everything but boredom, acknowledged the inclined head of a nurse leaving with what looked like a pot of anti-infection salve and caught the eye of the nearest pharmacist. "Commander Bellorum," the man's eyes instinctively checked for injuries and found none, and Octavius could see his confusion clearly, "Do you have a prescription?"

"I only need some sleep syrup. Haven't been able to get proper rest and I can't afford to be tired," Octavius explained. He hoped the man wouldn't send him to another doctor for a full physical; he wanted to keep this embarrassing weakness contained and had avoided any of the medics attached to his personal regiment for that exact reason.

The pharmacist tilted his head. "How long has this been an issue? I can give you light concentration, but I must recommend that you see a doctor as a precaution. We wouldn't want to miss a larger problem." _Oh, that's hilarious, because you've missed three cases of a fairly huge one._

"A few nights," Octavius lied, "It really is minor, but I don't want it to impair me. This is a precaution."

"The syrup will help, but of course it will only hasten and deepen your natural sleep, not address the root cause of your insomnia. In some patients it can also be addictive, if taken repeatedly as you might. Excuse me," the pharmacist disappeared into the forest of shelves and moments later returned with a large glass jug of a milky translucent liquid. He lifted a smaller bottle onto the table and began to pour. "A capful should produce on average eight hours of sleep. You may dilute it with water if you prefer, it will have the same effect. I must caution you not to take it too late at night, as it will make you sleep past roll call. You will need a doctor's authorization for anything more potent."

 _You said insomnia. Is it that obvious?_ If Octavius had been religious, he would have prayed that it was not. He could not show weakness. _A commander is stone and steel._ But he was already adept at hiding mental irregularities. This was just one more.

\-----------------------

Back in his room, Octavius tossed back the syrup like a shot of whiskey and shuddered. Usually the patients it was used upon were too otherwise miserable to care, but the stuff tasted awful - cloyingly sweet but bitter and sharp at the same time. At least it was potent; his body was already sinking into sleep, even as his mind kept on at full speed.

Mother stood at the end of a long and empty hall. A breeze came in through the windows and played in her hair, and a small bright thing hung from her right hand. Her face held the strange empty sadness of a Bad Day. She turned and walked away from him, and was soon out of sight beyond blowing white curtains. He set off after her and could soon see her again, but could not catch up even when he ran. It was vitally important that he speak to her. She was having a Bad Day and no one else was near, and the doctors always said that there was a possibility she could hurt herself in that state. A shout burst from him and echoed down the hall, but she did not turn.

He pushed aside the last tangling curtain to emerge on a wide bluff at night, with the sea in the distance. Mother stood statue-like by the edge of the cliff, and he rushed to pull her away. She did not resist, but turned to look at him. The Bad Day was gone from her face; she was driven, focused as she pressed the shining thing into his hand.

The cemetery was entirely deserted. Octavius stood under General Seneca's blue spruce, looking out over the regimented lines of small, carefully tended flowerbeds and white marble gravestones that glowed in the moonlight. He walked, document case in hand, past other memorial-trees, not quite sure where he intended to go.

With a crash, the document case came open and papers, more papers than a case that size should be able to hold, spilled out. The breeze picked them up and carried them across the cemetery in clouds. Frantic, he grabbed at the ones that flew near his face and dodged graves chasing after the rest. Several were fetched up against marble monuments or snagged in plants, but still more skated across the manicured grass away from him. He glanced at the writing; it appeared to be one page of a vast and intricate mathematical proof. Octavius vaulted a low wall onto a wide marble plaza with a single small tomb in the center, rounded on three sides by tall rectangular pillars. The hilltop location afforded him a sweeping view of half the cemetery, the sparkling bend of the river and its bridges, and Romula perched on its hills. Papers, so many papers covered with unintelligible writing, had filled the plaza and collected in drifts at the base of the pillars.

He had just begun to gather them when the carvings on the pillars drew his eye. Names, regular marching lines of the names of soldiers whose bodies were not recovered, were carved into the stone. He stood and brushed his hand across the surface of the marble, wondering why the guards standing vigil were gone. He would stay there until they returned. He replaced his handful of papers in the case and turned towards the tomb. Storm clouds were beginning to cover the sky over the city; he could smell rain and feel the electric tinge of a building thunderstorm. There was a whisper behind him that he momentarily thought was rain in the trees.

The names, the dead names, were peeling away from their pillars and rushing toward his face, the wind of their passage swirling the papers into clouds. The names flew at him like bees. Octavius raised a hand to ward them off and the ground opened beneath his feet.

Cold. It was cold, and he was surrounded by tables. They receded into the distance, and on each lay a shrouded shape he knew was a body. Morbidly curious, he folded back the sheet covering the nearest one.

Sulla stared up at him with glassy eyes.

He stepped back. His hand brushed another body and moved the sheet aside. Scipio. Eyes open and as accusing as in life.

He ran down the row of tables, pulling sheets to the floor, searching for a face he didn't know. Judith, Dove, Stefan, Zora, Professor Lucan, Professor Claudius, Antilles, Laurentius, Dr. Dellius, Uncle Terence, Aunt Ophelia, the cousins. Mother, almost like she was sleeping but her eyes, free of the burden of her ill mind. All their eyes were open, and all their eyes knew him.

Someone was shaking his shoulder and saying things. His hands were covered in fine white dust. Crushed chalk. His room. A master weaver's house in Crawsby. Predawn. The hospital and morgue were at least half a mile away. And some idiot was poking at him. This selfsame idiot had just seen him at his weakest. _Damn_.

"Sir? Sir, are you all right, I heard -"

"Yes, Messala, I'm quite fine," Octavius smiled with too many teeth, "And if you tell _anyone_ about this, I will personally cut out your tongue."

"Of course, sir," the trooper looked meaningfully around the room, hesitant.

The room was a mess. The slate was out of his pack, along with several sheets of paper and sticks of graphite. The rest of the pack's contents were strewn across the floor, where he must have thrown them in his sleep. "I'll get it. You are dismissed." Messala saluted and left the room. Octavius shoved everything back into the pack, burying the sleep syrup at the bottom. Damn – well, it _had_ done what the doctor said it would. Evidently, it had only served to keep him dreaming where normally he would wake up. At least he was physically rested enough to not fall asleep on his feet – he hoped. Mentally, and that was what counted, he was no more refreshed than if he had not taken the syrup.

But he wouldn't fall on his face or talk to the air in front of the entire army. That was all the pharmacist had promised, and all he needed. Only he knew what happened when he slept. Messala could probably guess about the sleepwalking, but he wouldn't dare tell anyone. Octavius put his dream in a mental box and locked it, then dressed for morning parade.

\---------------------

"I feel as if we haven't spoken properly in ages," Sulla said lightly as they filed out of morning briefing. _You don't_ feel _anything_. Octavius narrowed his eyes. His brother never did anything without some kind of ulterior motive, and he wasn't about to walk into any traps. "Oh, come on. I'm not trying to trick you into anything. They're at maneuvers on the plain, let's go watch." Octavius' mind flitted through the various possibilities, flying along the threads. _One: Sulla planning something. Solution: Leave. Problem: Impair working relationship. We need unity. Solution: Converse. Watch what you say so he doesn't use it against you. Problem: Attitude. Two: Sulla actually only wants a conversation._ _Cannot ignore without causing tension later on. We need unity. Solution: Converse. This is unlike Sulla. Prepare for the unexpected._

Octavius shrugged, "I have an hour." The pair mounted their horses and rode down the ruined street toward the break in the curtain wall. Conversing was strange. Sulla wouldn't say anything about what he had done in the Ice Wastes and worked in a minor dig about their respective security clearances. The ride passed in intermittent silence and short sections of the same type of conversation that occupied their journey to Silverstone. Nothing personal or very sibling-like; only colleagues discussing their work and giving each other advice. An ordinary person would feel something akin to regret or loss, missing the way it had been when they were very young children. Octavius was far too occupied digesting the subject of the morning briefing for anything so sentimental.

The citadel of this particular town contained certain documents referencing deals between the Icemark and the Periphery rebels, including Li Feng's group and the Artemision. Lindenshield hadn't engaged the Empire directly, but this proved she was working against them for nearly twenty years. The Icemark already had ethnic Artemision living within its borders, and the other groups they had been funneling gold and weapons to had been working against a common enemy. Octavius needed time to react. This revelation made perfect sense, but it was too huge, too much to simply accept and file away. This changed everything. He had to gather his thoughts, figure out how to respond personally. It mattered more now. He had a reason to be here.

The town was built on a hill, overlooking gently sloping fields. The vantage afforded the brothers a clear view of troop movements on the plain. Octavius avidly followed the patterns and shifts of the mock battles, using them as training for his own tactical eye. It wasn't the same level of unpredictability as a real engagement, of course, but it was more relevant than a nine-box puzzle for keeping his mind in shape. "Gods' sakes, Sulla, are they using live rounds?"

"Of course. Nothing like the threat of blood to sharpen a soldier's concentration, especially when it might be his own," Sulla said with indifference.

"That is wasteful," Octavius hissed.

"Only ten percent. Father's orders. You aren't in the Maze anymore and attachment to your troops impairs decision-making; you would do well to remember that. I would think it refreshing not to work within such constraints." _Yes_ , you _would._ "Octavius, I need to ask. Are you concerned about the _future_ of the Empire?"

"What do you mean?" Mental alarms. Something in his brother's voice told him that this question was the point of initiating this conversation. He had to tread carefully here.

"I _mean_ our Emperor is a toddler. He is not hated; ordinary people have quite the positive and protective reaction to small children. But he cannot lead. He's only there because he's the last of his house, for the symbolism. Father would be better."

"That is near treason, brother."

"Don't act like you haven't thought it. We're beset by enemies – your canyon insurgents, these barbarians funding them, the Tienjingyi, the Venezzians – and the chief executive is a _baby_. We need skill, experience, and strength, and more than as Lord Protector."

"And that _is_."

"Only hypothetical. You're much too sensitive. But surely you realize that certain reforms to the Senate and expansions of -"

"Reread your history," Octavius interrupted, "We had all-powerful Emperors and unrestrained regents and it _did not last_. Emperor and Senators discuss the laws, Senators write them, the Emperor enacts them, the courts uphold them, and the army makes it possible. That is the Charter, Sulla. Our allegiance is to the Empire. You would do well to remember that." He turned without a goodbye, not noticing his brother glaring knives at his back.

\-------------------

\-------------------

Sharley played with the carved shell amulet hanging around his neck on a cord. _The Nomads' witch said I'd have a teacher._ She'd said other things too, things that that sounded like another stanza of his father's prophecy.

The fleet's refuge had not been an _old_ Sea Nomad harbor at all; it was very much still in use. Their main anchorage was on the west side of the island facing the open ocean, but a few of their brightly painted ships had ridden out the storm with the refugee fleet and several strangely shaped _dhows_ of the Desert People. Sharley had heard that Sea Nomads, even the merchants, weren't to be trusted. Most clans traded, but some had found crime more lucrative and joined with other raiders to form the pirate fleets called Zephyrs, Corsairs and Island Buccaneers. These fleets had no central power, but often a powerful captain or clan head arose to sway decisions. The Empire had made alliances with – paid off – certain key figures and could count on a substantial number of pirates-turned-privateers to menace the Icemark's coast, assist the Imperial Navy in its blockade and threaten the refugee fleet. After which, Sharley assumed, they would go immediately back to hunting and hanging them.

He had not been idle for the almost two weeks it took for the remains of the refugee fleet to complete their repairs. Ships of all nations had used the harbor as shelter from the storm, and he had taken the opportunity to make the acquaintance of the other captains – flexing his diplomatic muscles, as Maggie called it, and beating off the gnawing feeling that by losing several ships in the storm he had failed his people before he'd even begun. He and Maggie had been rowed across to the largest of the dhows – as all of the crafts had borne the same merchant's insignia, they assumed that the man in charge of the entire convoy would be on board. Sharley remembered how he had wished to sink straight through the deck and into the sea as the foreign sailors stared at what to them was bizarre and unusual coloring, but he grit his teeth and pressed on. He would be making many such state visits.

The convoy was owned by a Captain Hafez Al-Khatib of the ruined city of Algeras. He had invited Sharley and Maggie to his cabin for pomegranate juice, and they had initially made fairly harmless small talk before inevitably moving to discuss the war. The entire meeting had been conducted in the tongue of the Southern Continent, but Sharley had quickly picked up the language of the Desert in the following weeks as he made other visits to the dhows. He had told himself that his sudden interest in the new language and culture was simply a product of his boredom as he waited for the voyage to get underway. But certain things the captain had mentioned in their first meeting– the fighting methods of the Desert Kingdom, their hatred of the Empire, and great leaders with disabilities like his own – had planted the smallest seed of an idea in his head.

Sharley had been so deep in thought as their small boat cast off from Al-Khatib's ship that he hadn't noticed Maggie directing the rowers toward the groups of Sea Nomad ships floating near the harbor's mouth. "We should meet with the Nomads as well. Though they don't own land, this is their place," Maggie had mused.

"They haven't got power, not like the Desert Kingdom used to. An alliance with one clan or even a few won't do us much, if that's what you're thinking. And I thought we weren't supposed to trust them."

"Charlemagne. Don't write them off because they aren't a conventional _nation_. No, they do not have the same power as the Desert Kingdom. But they could bring you information and trade, and they rule the far ocean. Not to mention we _are_ in a bit of a tight spot, let's not judge all Sea Nomads on the actions of the pirate clans."

"Do you think we'll need to go out there? To hide? Is that why you want to establish diplomatic relations with them?''

''It's a good practice to get into,'' Maggie had risen in his seat and squinted, 'Are they sending a launch to meet us? How extroverted. That's a Clan Dalmas sail, if I'm not mistaken.'' The sail in question had been blue and red striped, and the ship the launch hailed from painted in the same colors, weathered but still vibrant.

A man in the bow of the launch had stood and called out to them. ''Our mother guide has asked us to escort you on board, Prince Charlemagne. If you would please follow?''

'' _Dáy útmutató._ Mother guide is the literal translation, but there's a bit more significance than that. She's a weather witch, usually, and the spiritual leader of each clan,'' Maggie had explained quietly, in full lecture mode even then, ''Show her due respect.'' They had fallen in alongside the Nomads' boat and Sharley had taken the opportunity to examine the rowers. The men had been of similar complexion to Maggie and had addressed them in Talian, though the speaker's unfamiliar accent indicated that it was not his first language. They had worn flowing tunics cinched with bright woven belts, and wide-brimmed straw hats on their heads. As they approached the guide mother's ship, Sharley had noticed several of the men stealing glances at him and began to wonder what exactly she had said that would give them this welcome.

He had scrambled up the rope ladder expecting a crew of helping hands like the one on Al-Khatib's vessel, but the Nomads had afforded him a wide berth. Sharley became acutely aware of his limp and wanted to fold in on himself. Men and women, children and elders had all watched almost reverently as the escort led him and Maggiore to a cabin at the bow.

It had taken a moment for Sharley's eyes to adjust to the darkness. All the portholes were wide open, allowing in the sea breeze and sunlight, but the depths of the cabin were in shadow. Strings of charms and elaborately knotted colorful rope had hung from the ceiling joists. Sitting statue-like in the center of the cabin had been a small woman, her waist-length hair braided with yet more charms. Sharley realized with awkward shock that she was naked but for a patterned wrap skirt, allowing the wind to play over her sun-brown skin. He had flushed beet red and backed up into Maggie instinctively before composing himself, reminding himself that it was a different culture than the one he knew.

''Welcome,'' the guide mother had said as he entered, turning to face him, ''I heard of your coming on the north wind. There is no need to bow to me, though I appreciate your respect. In time to come, I would bow to you.''

''Why? If – I may ask. Your clan looked at me like I was – my mother, or someone," Sharley had stammered.

''They look at you because I have heard of you, Charlemagne of the north. You carry greatness in your bones and your name," she had whispered, turning a whorled piece of driftwood between her wrinkled hands, "And ahead, if you see the way to it. Putting things to rights when they are broken. You're small yet, but what I see in you will be. I'm rarely wrong." She smiled a toothless grin and pressed an intricately carved piece of seashell into his hand. "Take it. It is favor and luck of _Szélanya,_ the Mother or the Wind. May she speed you on your way. You'll need it, you and your teacher. There must be two. There were two before, and there will be two again.''

"Venezzia! Venezzia ho!" lookouts shouted, calling Sharley out of his recollection.

"Sharley. Sharley, we're here," Maggie tapped his shoulder. The Prince Regent watched spellbound as the city coalesced around him into colorful marbles, gilded domes, and bronze cupolas. Every wall was either decorated with fine tile or breathtakingly real statues. And the boats – the boats were everywhere, rowing boats, large seafaring vessels, ornate barges and thin black craft piloted by a single man in the stern. He hardly realized he was grinning until Maggie acknowledged it with a smile of his own, "I'm glad you feel happy when you look upon my city."

"Why wouldn't I? It's – it's beautiful, and dirty, and so _alive_!"

"And more. Look over there, the arsenal shipyards. The Republic's fleets have been built and repaired there for over five hundred years, Sharley. The fleet's less than a quarter of the size it was at its height, but perhaps in the future Venezzia's galleys will once again strike out at its enemies." There was something more meaningful in the old scholar's tone than simply background information.

"Do you mean the Empire, Maggie?" Sharley asked suspiciously, knowing full well that Maggiore Totus would only divulge his thoughts when he believed the time is right.

"I mean any country that threatens the interests of the Republic," he responded airily, "but look, we're already at Sancta Markus." The already huge canal they had been sailing broadened onto a basin of deep teal water teeming with all manner of watercraft whose noise and bustle hit Sharley like a wall. Dominating the skyline was a massive column, capped with a bronze statue of a lion with its paw on an outward facing book. _And I saw a statue; it was some kind of big cat, not a leopard, with its paw on a book. It was on a column, and there was some kind of craft crumpled around the base, like it had fallen on the statue and been stabbed through._ Sharley spun away; his eyes filling with tears and his gut with fear as he remembered his father describe his vision.

 _Wreckage of a thing,_ Sharley thought, _the war will follow me here. The war._

_\---------------------_

Otho Vitellius did not look dangerous. Short and white-haired with a pair of reading spectacles perched on his nose, he could easily pass as an archivist or schoolteacher. The Director of Imperial Intelligence found it rather amusing. He sat now surrounded by Deputy Director Felix and the Agency's high command at the morning briefing, the unassuming spider at the center of a web that spanned the known world. The table before them was spread with folders of reports from Analysis on events at all points of the globe – the Vindhyan Raj was pursuing a new tax policy unpopular among his vassals, the Tienjingyi trade minister had apparently suffered a fatal stroke, and the Icemark's refugee fleet was overcoming every trial and continuing on its journey south.

"The prince not only survived the storm, but met with the Dalmas Sea Nomads and a Desert Kingdom merchant. This is from a Rabaan clansman who shared the harbor with what's left of the refugee fleet and observed the prince's movement, but was unable to provide any details of the conversations. He may have simply been paying visits of courtesy, but we cannot ignore the fact that he now has a contact in Haifolex. And the Sultan favors the merchants immensely, anyone with their ear has an easier in at court."

"Any idea of the Desert captain's name?" inquired the Southern Continent Chief of Analysis, "We should get an exact map of this man's web of connections, see what assets the prince could draw upon."

"The source wasn't clear, he said it might have been, quote 'Khattash, Kasim, Khatib or something like that.' He was much more specific on the ship's name, _Qarn al-Katra_. I have an asset searching for the captain's name through that, but as the Desert Kingdom has no central registry it will take time."

"And we all know time is of the essence. Machiavelli won't do anything unless he's certain to profit, and there'd be no profit in attacking us without the Sultan to back him up. It all hinges on what the barbarian prince does with respect to the Desert Kingdom. If he leaves Venezzia, we have no choice but to eliminate him. He must not be allowed to inspire them," Felix spun her quill idly, "Ideas are much harder to kill – regaining their place in the world order, glory for the One God, vengeance – he doesn't even need to be alive to pose a threat."

"I agree. We should operate under the assumption that he has greater plans than simply caring for the peasant rabble, at least then there will be no surprises," the Director said thoughtfully, "It is exactly as you said, Felix. The minute he expresses interest in contacting the Sultan he becomes _much_ more dangerous; limiting the damage from this barbarian must be our first priority. Now, the Tienjing operation…"

\----------------------

Sharley wondered why they were taking such a roundabout route to the Doge's palace, through the labyrinth of twisting and dim waterways off the city's main canals. Maggie sat beside him, faced by the two Venezzian courtiers given the duty of hosting them. There were no Icemark guards, but Maggie had reluctantly secreted the pistol in his robe. Sharley could only trust that the boat's pilot knew the way, because the closeness made his skin crawl and he didn't want to stay here any longer than necessary. So many places for assassins to hide, such easy shots, _one and done_ – already he was becoming attuned to the dangers of war with the Empire. The route drew less attention. That must be it. The Grand Canal was likely watched.

The galley nosed out onto a broader waterway lined with the back docks of enormous buildings. Sharley noted immediately that the canal was a dead end, tiny war galleys patrolled the waters and each dock was lined with soldiers watching the entrances and inspecting incoming goods, and concluded that this must be the rear approach to the Doge's palace. "His Eminence the Doge begs the pardon of your Royal Highness in asking you to enter his humble establishment through the trade and kitchen quarters, but he is sure that your supreme intelligence will have informed you of the need for discretion," said Signor Permino, the more senior of their guides, with a sweeping bow.

Sharley and Maggie disembarked and the party of four was whisked up the stairs, through a set of enormous doors and into the kitchen. A nearly solid wall of heat slammed Sharley in the face, and sweat almost immediately broke out on his brow. They moved quickly, giving him little time to observe, but what he could see was organized chaos as cauldrons seethed, ovens flared and servants rushed every which way. Their escorts ushered them into a series of quieter and winding corridors and eventually to a passageway lined with elaborately carved wood paneling. After making doubly sure the hall was empty, Permino pressed a specific carved flower and an entire section of paneling slid open.

A secret passageway! Rather than let them think him an excitable and easily impressed barbarian boy, Sharley smiled knowingly and stepped inside. In less than a minute Permino was knocking at another set of paneling, which opened to reveal a sumptuously decorated drawing room overlooking the Grand Canal. _No throne – this must be the Doge's apartments. This_ is _secret._ It took Sharley a few moments to notice the tall man gazing out of the huge windows.

"Ah, Prince Regent Charlemagne. I can at last look upon the features of the young man I have heard so much about. And who could bring so much trouble," the Doge's voice was elegant and cultured, with a cold and calculating undertone. Silk hiding steel.

"Your Eminence Doge Machiavelli, I am honored and gratified," Sharley replied, feeling his weak leg threatening to give out beneath him.

The Doge crossed from the window to a small round table set for three, smiling briefly in welcome. "I see the reports were not an exaggeration, you are fluent in Vennezian. Shall we sit?" Signor Permino took up a position behind the Doge's chair, while Signor Gabraldi melted into the shadows at the corner of the room. "Please forgive the elaborate secrecy. The Empire's spies will have reported your presence as soon as you arrived in our fair city; a fleet of such size is impossible to hide. But if the Intelligence Agency believes you are making contacts in the Southern Continent or doing anything more than shepherding your civilians, make no mistake, it _will_ be dangerous. To all of us. Signor Totus, how soon can you begin your journey?"

"Whenever a ship is made available, Your Eminence. We have already made first contact, by happy accident," Maggie replied. _Journey?_ _To where? We're supposed to stay here_ , Sharley was completely thrown by this turn of the conversation but kept his face polite and neutral.

"The day after tomorrow. You will leave from the Fisherman's Quay and the ship will be crewed by Hellenic mercenaries, none of whom will know they are in the pay of the Republic," Machiavelli's flinty eyes locked on to Maggie's, "It will remain that way. You will send no messages or reports of your progress while you are away, and if you are intercepted, the Venezzian Republic knows nothing about your mission. Do you understand?"

"Perfectly, Your Eminence."

Sharley felt as if he'd become invisible, or died and returned as a ghost, to find people talking over him as if he didn't exist at all. How dare they ignore him? He was Prince Regent! If plans were being finalized, let alone made, _especially_ if they involved him, he had a right to know what they were! "Excuse me," he said sassily, "Have I _died_?"

Maggie looked aghast, somewhat akin to a gasping bearded fish. "I'll explain later, calm down."

"I'm not going to calm down, and you'll explain _now_! Are you trying to make me look like some stupid young nobody whom you control? I'm no _puppet_ , Signor Totus, I see two rulers and three servants here, and you're one of the servants. Perhaps you have forgotten that."

Machiavelli sat back, narrowing his eyes as he reevaluated the young prince before him. The boy's tone had started out confused and hurt, a petulant child, but he'd changed in the course of his outburst and become more…forceful. More regal. He needed practice, of course, he was young and inexperienced and far too impulsive, but not hopeless. This gamble might well pay off. Watching the prince and his advisor bicker back and forth, the Doge held up his hand. "Prince Charlemagne. I had assumed you were already informed and had approved the plan."

"Your Eminence…Your Highness, Charlemagne, the negotiations have been delicate and complex, and I did not think it prudent to raise false hopes, or burden you or your lady mother with details before I had something definite to tell," Maggie explained quietly, but Sharley wasn't near done.

"Didn't think it right to tell the _Queen_? Did you think yourself above her? How dare you make plans regarding the Icemark without telling her, whatever they are?"

Maggie suddenly felt old beyond his considerable years. He knew he was at fault here, and could not even really feel angry with Sharley for his tantrum. It was justifiable. He had miscalculated, and the only solution seemed to be complete honesty. He would explain everything, right here, and hope Sharley gave it his royal blessing.

He took a deep breath. "Your Majesty, when the threat from the Polypontus was renewed I realized that Scipio Bellorum would never have contemplated another invasion, and the Emperor and Senate never have cleared it, unless he was absolutely certain of his success. Not just confident, but _objectively certain_. He would have calculated all the odds, allowed for the abilities and effect of every ally and all contingencies he could reasonably expect, and concluded that not only could he win but that he definitely _would_ win. And then there would be nothing left. So the only way we could have a chance at winning would be to upset his calculations – to introduce a factor or factors that would render them null and void, something so wildly unexpected that it wasn't present in his models. Namely, new allies, from farther afield."

He went on to outline how he had contacted the Doge under the pretense of asking asylum for the refugees, and although Venezzia was in no position to help openly and directly, Machiavelli had proposed he make contact with the Desert People. "If we could persuade them to join our struggle, it could be enough to upset the model. An _unknown unknown,_ in Imperial parlance, in contrast to the _known unknown_ of longer-range ballistae or a better-trained fyrd."

"So…have they agreed to join the Alliance?"

"No. Not yet. They're very secretive, very reserved, and cautious to move against the Empire. But they hate it, and they hate Bellorum especially, and they have heard of your mother's victory twenty years ago. The diplomatic work, however, has yet to begin. That was to be your job, Your Majesty, provided you agree."

"Agree to what?" Sharley asked nervously.

"To a diplomatic mission to Haifolex, the capitol of the Desert Kingdom, to place our proposal directly before Sultan Haroun Nasrid himself. You would be a Royal Ambassador, like your mother before you."

Sharley swallowed. That was _not_ what he'd expected when he set sail from Old Haven. He had resigned himself to a dull existence in the refugee town, sitting by the fire with old and infirm, waiting for news from the front. He wasn't sure he could do it, not after the disaster that this meeting had been. He was a gawky, crippled boy with about as much diplomatic skill as a clown at a funeral – after all, he had just verbally attacked Maggie in front of the Doge and made fools of them both. _I can't do it, I can't_.

 _But I have to_.

"Then I'd best review my _lugha al-Badiya_."

" _Bene_ ," the Doge broke in, "Then, Your Majesty, we have an agreement. In two days' time you will have left our territorial waters and you will be travelers on a private journey to the Desert Kingdom. I wish you success, for all our sakes." He sat back in his chair and closed his eyes, making it clear that the meeting was at an end.

He was making a great gamble, but was confident enough that it would turn out in his favor. He was about to commit his small country to helping an enemy of the Polypontian Empire, and if he miscalculated then the wrath of Scipio Bellorum would almost certainly fall upon him. The general would relish the opportunity to gain a foothold in the Southern Continent, the Senate was all too eager to own the Republic's shipping connections and cut out the middleman that habitually overcharged their allies in the business sphere. The Empire had made it abundantly clear that it viewed the Venezzians as arms dealers responsible for prolonging the civil war, and Machiavelli knew that the Commander in the canyon lands harbored a particular hatred.

But despite the considerable dangers, he was willing to go through with it. If the northern prince succeeded against all the odds, the political applecart would almost certainly be upset, and perhaps Venezzia would rise to fill the vacuum. It was a risk, but he liked taking risks, and there was much to be gained.

\-----------------------

The servant stepped back from her listening post and made her final notes in coded shorthand. Tucking the paper and quill into her pocket and taking up a feather duster, she slipped seamlessly back into the bustle that kept the Doge's palace in order. When she returned to the servants' quarters at the end of the day, she transferred the papers to a letter addressed to her fictitious mother in the countryside and brought it to the storefront of a nearby messenger service. As it was after their closing time, she slid the letter into the drop-off box and returned to her assignment.

Early the next morning, an employee of the messenger service sorted through the last night's letters, checking each address. The servant's letter he secreted away, brought back to his rooms at the end of his shift and transferred to a small leather cylinder, which he affixed to the leg of a homing pigeon. Unnoticed among the myriad birds over the seaside city, the transcript of Prince Charlemagne's meeting with Doge Machiavelli made its way to Romula. In the Analysis offices it was categorized, read, summarized and copied, and the original document was marked with a red tag for priority and sent up the chain of command until it eventually reached a silver tray on the desk of Director Vitellius himself.

"Lord Director, Deputy Felix is outside," his secretary poked her head through the door.

"Send her in," Vitellius replied. This barbarian was nothing but trouble, if only that monitor had succeeded in sinking his ship before for he even reached the Doge. But the encounter with the monitor had been utterly random, and then it had been forced to make for safe harbor in the Barrier Islands before that unseasonable storm. "Welcome, Deputy, have a seat. I'm sure you've read the Venezzia transcript?"

"Of course, Director. It is just as we expected. Operations had everything in place and they are in motion as we speak."

"Good. Felix, although Operation Charybdis seems to be moving like clockwork at the moment, I need you to travel to Melita and oversee," Vitellius said, and waited for his second-in-command's inevitable confusion at the unexpected order.

"My Lord, while I am honored by this assignment, the Southern Continent was not my region -"

"And you're in administration, not operations, yes, but administration is precisely what I need. I would go myself if I could. You wouldn't be taking command, but instead acting as my proxy. Already this operation spans two regions, and I need someone to coordinate both departments and allocate resources – effectively, you will be a very localized Director of only Charybdis. With so much at stake for the Empire, I do not want the lag time it would take to contact Agency headquarters if something entirely unexpected were to occur. You have authorization to do whatever you deem necessary to ensure the success of the operation."

Felix took the briefest of moment to absorb and compute this new development in her career and hid the tiniest of proud smirks. "I understand, sir. I can assure you, Charybdis will not fail."

"I admire your confidence, Deputy. And there is another reason I'm sending you and not any administration underling; I want you there to lay the groundwork for something extra, beyond the scope of apprehending this barbarian princeling. Another Ayutthaya - if we can fully neutralize the Desert Kingdom without involving our good friend the Lord Protector – oh, but I'm just brainstorming."

Felix raised her eyebrows, knowing a forceful hint when she heard one. "An operation of that size and delicacy would need Director's approval every step of the way."

"You have it. In Melita, Director's approval is your approval. Time is of the essence – work quickly, take every opportunity, and work independently of home. Of course, I expect weekly reports, but asset placement and orders are up to you. Consider it a side project – our main focus must be the Lindenshield's immediate threat – but if you have the opportunity."

"It would be my pleasure."

Vitellius fished a bottle of wine and two goblets from the bottom drawer of his desk. After pouring for himself and Felix, he raised his goblet in a toast. "To Operation Charybdis," he said, echoed by the Deputy Director, and they both drank deep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tfw your chapters get so long that the uploader freezes
> 
> And that's where it left off. I have more stuff drafted and outlined, so we'll see!


End file.
